I'll Miss It All

A father’s meditations on the moments that won’t last.

Image by the author with a big assist from AI.

Every parent remembers the "firsts." The first smile. The first laugh. The first steps. The first words.

But will we remember the "lasts?"

The last time they call you "daddy." The last time they need you to pick them up. The last diaper. The last toy. The last skinned knee. The last band-aid.

So much of parenting is bittersweet, perhaps nothing more than watching them change daily.

Right now, my son is four, and my daughter is one, and while at times it's an immense challenge—especially as a 40-year-old—I'm also doing everything I can to ground myself in the present. They'll each wake up a little different tomorrow than they were yesterday. And before we know it, they'll be fighting for independence. And as much as I want my kids to be self-sufficient and successful, part of me dreads it because there is so much about the children I have right now that I’ll miss.

I'll miss "Daddy, the sun is awake!"

I'll miss greeting her with "Good morning, Muffin Mouse!"

I'll miss "DADDY! I'M HERE!" whenever he comes home.

I’ll miss her backward waves.

I'll miss playroom wrestling matches.

I'll miss the battle to keep her out of the snack drawer.

I'll miss the battle to keep the water in the bathtub.

I'll miss the way he meanderingly recaps his day.

I'll miss the way she comes out of nowhere to climb on my lap.

I'll miss making up songs and games to excite him to brush his teeth.

I'll miss her raspberries and blown kisses.

I'll miss finding his cars in our bed.

I'll miss finding crackers in our air return.

I'll miss the way she loves when I sing.

I'll miss his ice powers keeping the monsters and ghosts at bay.

I'll miss the sound of little feet pounding the floor in perfect rhythm as he runs to our bed at 1 a.m.

I'll miss Miss Rachel, and Barney, and Batwheels, and Blippi.

I'll miss how she steals my glasses and then stares at me with a proud smile.

I'll miss the cuddles and bubbles and babbles and cackles.

I'll miss how she toddles with her bag of raisins and little jeans.

I'll miss how he trusts me to teach him what the world means.

I'll miss the cries.

I'll miss the "whys."

I'll miss the look of wonder in both of their eyes.

Right now, as I write this, the sun hasn't risen, and they're both asleep in little cotton cocoons. They're morphing into new little humans, ever so slightly different than the humans I tucked into bed.

I'll miss who they were yesterday and the day before. I'll miss it all.

But I can't wait to meet the people they are today.