As a mom, I’ve often wished for a postcard in the mail—one that would tell me, “This is the last time you’ll ever do this with your child.”
It would have been nice to know that fall day in 1999, as I rushed to get us out the door for a play date, that stopping for a few extra minutes to nurse my crying baby would be the very last time I ever did. After that, he only wanted a bottle.
Or that Christmas of 2013, surrounded by wrapping paper and twinkling lights, would be the final time my American Girl Doll–obsessed daughter would ever ask for one.
Or that spring day in 2016, when my youngest son and I spontaneously stopped at the playground for a few minutes of fun, would mark the last time I’d ever have a child excited to go down a slide or swing on a swing.
These seemingly small moments—the quiet, ordinary parts of a busy, chaotic mom life—never feel monumental while they’re happening. It’s only when they’re gone that you realize how much they mattered.
This morning, as I ran around the house like a chicken without her head, my youngest child, Peter, casually dropped a number into our conversation that stopped me in my tracks.
“I only have 38 more months of high school left,” he said, pulling on his sweatshirt and backpack.
“What?” I said, grabbing my coffee as he spoke.
“38 more months,” he repeated.
It was 6:30 a.m. My brain was still waking up, my to-do list running through my head a mile a minute. I tried to shrug it off.
“Peter, is it really only 38 more months?” I asked.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
A wave of sadness hit me, layered on top of my already spinning mom brain. My mind ticked through the day’s tasks: get breakfast, pack lunches, check homework. But underneath it all, I felt the unmistakable pang of realization—38 months. That’s all I have left with my last child in high school. 38 months until this chapter closes.
Peter moved on, talking about a movie we’d just seen and a test he had coming up. I told him to wait inside for the bus since it was still dark outside, and he gave me that look—the one I’d seen on his older siblings’ faces, perfected over time: you’ve got to be joking, Mom.
“I’m worried about you,” I said, smiling despite myself. “You’re my last baby. Let me do this.”
“Okay, Mom,” he said, flashing that grin—the one that makes you want to grab him and never let go. Of course, I didn’t.
Soon, the bus rounded the corner. He bounded out the door, and I called after him, “Be careful. It’s still dark. Don’t run.”
“Yes, Mom,” he replied.
The bus stopped. I shouted one last reminder, one last small moment of connection, “Have a great day. I love you!”
“I love you too, Mom,” he called back.
And then he was gone—the bus doors closing between us.
As I stepped back into the quiet of my house, it hit me: Peter had just handed me the postcard I’d always wanted, the one I’d only ever dreamed of receiving. It wasn’t a literal card in the mail, but it was a moment just as real.
I have 38 more months with him before high school ends. 38 more months before this last chapter closes.
And as much as I know time isn’t enough, I also know I’ll treasure every single one of those months.
