Tonight I put my son to bed.

Like any other night; I brushed his teeth, washed his face, changed his diaper, wrestled him out of his clothes, in to his pajamas, and read a few stories before tucking him in to bed.

Now that he’s out of his crib and in a twin bed I can’t resist the urge to climb in with him. Yes, we’re forming a bad habit. So?

Most nights I fall asleep before he does. Tonight that wasn’t the case.

Despite being utterly exhausted I was fixated on his sweet, peaceful face. He was out like a light; I laid there tracing my fingers over his nose. Around his ear. Over his eyelids. Across his lips and through his freshly cut hair.

My heart ached, but in a good way.

Tonight was the last time I put him to bed as a one year old.

My baby is two. How did that happen? Where has the time gone?

Two years ago around this time I had my first contraction. It woke me up from a deep sleep. Being the night hawk that I am, it was strange that on that particular night I had opted to go to bed decently early. Something in me must have known; that was the last time I was going to bed pregnant. It was the last time I was going to bed ‘childless’.

Nothing can prepare you for what becoming a mother does to your life.

It was the last time my heart would beat solely in my own body.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could somehow know when we are experiencing something for the last time? If we knew that, we could slow down and savour the experience. Be fully aware and present. Inhale deeper. Open our hearts wider. Soak in every sensation. Let it ease into our mind, heart, flesh and bones. That way we would have the opportunity to make the most of it. Appreciate it for all it is. Remember it in great detail. Let it really sink in.

Just like tracing my son’s face tonight, as he lay there sound asleep.

I learned a painful lesson last year on his first birthday. For some ridiculous reason I thought it would be a good idea to introduce him to Santa on his birthday. I can’t even say why, as I’m not even a fan of the whole ‘pictures with Santa’ tradition (not until a child requests it, anyway). I’m especially not fond of photos of children screaming – terrified – on Santa’s lap. I mean, I don’t think ill of parents who do it (and find it funny), it’s just not something that I want to do.

But I got the idea in my head – and it stuck.

Last year Weston’s birthday was on a Friday. It was Friday the 27^th of November. It was a PA Day. It was also Black Friday.

Talk about a recipe for disaster.

I got Weston into a stylish outfit. We drove – in crappy weather – to the mall. I couldn’t find parking. Just that took forever. I really should have turned around then. I seriously considered it. A spot finally became available. We made our way inside.

The mall had never been busier, I swear. But then I really don’t like the mall, and rarely go, so what would I know?

It was full of frantic consumers, bored teenagers, and perfectly polished children (and parents) in the ‘Photos with Santa’ line.

Like lemmings, we joined them.

I knew Weston’s Dad was on his way. I’d convinced him to leave work early and join us, as it truly was a momentous occasion (Weston’s first birthday, not the Santa picture). He didn’t get there in time for the photo, unfortunately.

Weston turned out to be one of the screaming kids. He was terrified. We hadn’t driven all that way, searched for parking that long, or stood in line as long as we did for nothing – so I joined him. On Weston’s first birthday I sat next to a scowling Santa with a very leery child on my lap. His Dad arrived as we were paying for our picture. I immediately felt guilty that we hadn’t waited. He should have been in the photo, too.

From there I sent Weston home with his Dad. It had been a long day, and we had an even bigger weekend ahead of us. We were planning and organizing his first birthday party. You know – one of those ones with a theme, where you spend too much time and money on something the kid won’t even remember? Where you invite even your own grown friends (who don’t even have children) to be a part of the festivities?

It was a great time, and was worth it, don’t get me wrong.

Aidan took Weston to the comfort of our home on that cold and dark November evening while I went to a Dollarama I hadn’t checked yet. I was looking for specific items for loot bags that I needed more of.

As I drove the highway I suddenly had the urge to look at the clock. It said 5:57pm. My heart constricted in my chest. I suddenly felt sick. A year before that very moment Weston was three minutes old. Three minutes old. Why the Hell was I driving to the twelfth Dollarama that week instead of holding my son? Watching him play? Sharing a meal with him? Singing him the happy birthday song? Telling him – truthfully – that he is the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

I had missed the moment that he became one. I would never get that moment back.

He’ll never care or remember, I know, but I do.

That was the last time I’d do something because I felt like I had to. Because ‘everyone else is doing it’. I’ll never forgive myself for that, no matter how silly it seems.

I remember the last time I spoke with my Mom this vividly, as at that stage of her illness we knew every moment we shared with her could be our last. I was in a wedding dress, having just married Aidan on the rooftop patio at the hospital where she spent her final days. The wedding guests were heading out to dinner; our guest of honour wasn’t able to join. As I said goodnight and promised to see her the next morning she said, “They’re going to make me more comfortable now”.

That was the last time I would hear my mother’s voice.

I didn’t fully comprehend just how comfortable she meant.

The next day when I arrived to spend my day with her, she was no longer conscious. She was mumbling, frantically, but her eyes were closed. There was a frustration in the tone of her inability to fully communicate that will always haunt me. I’ll never know if she was angry that she couldn’t speak? Maybe she had more she wanted to say? Maybe she was angry at me and she was annoyed that she couldn’t express that clearly?

I’ll never know.

I tried to tell her it was ok. To rest. To be calm. Tears periodically escaped from her closed eyes. I can still remember how they tasted when I kissed them away. How they felt on my fingertips as I brushed them aside.

Last time’s, good and bad, can haunt us. How often have you said, “If I’d only known it was going to be the last time…”, and longed to re-live it? Rewind and re-do? Have a second chance?

What would you do differently? What would you say? What would you leave entirely as-was, but re-live one more time?

So many of my friends who know they aren’t having any more children say they can’t believe when they’ll never have a chance to experience certain things again. Like a newborn in a bassinet. A toddler in a crib. Breastfeeding. Puréed baby food. Bottles. Diapers. You name it, it feels like a big deal. Sometimes (often) there’s excitement that comes with these changes, but nostalgia still has a way of sneaking up on you.

I remember when my son had learned to sit up on his own. His baby swing collected dust in our living room for a good month before I realized it wasn’t needed any more. He had physically and mentally outgrown it. He had basically lived in the thing for the first months of his life, and now it sat empty. That fact alone strangely made my heart ache. Blame it on my lingering hormones, but I put him in it one last time. I turned it on and it began to sway – sluggishly – from side to side. His legs hung over awkwardly. He looked at me strangely. I watched him swing for a mere minute (two, max) before turning it off and returning him to his toys. I wanted to remember the last time he spent in his swing, no matter how ridiculous the reason.

Speaking of growing out of things, we just moved into a bigger home and traded our SUV for a minivan. I’d been convincing myself it was time to try for another baby. I was lining up my ducks. Crossing t’s and dotting i’s. I always thought I’d have more children, but I’ve still always treated every “last time” with Weston like it may be the last chance I’ll experience that particular moment or milestone as a mother.

And I’m glad, because I’ve had a change of heart.

Maybe I just need time, but, I’m at a place where I’m quite satisfied with having one child. Being a mom isn’t easy (on your body or your spirit). It’s rewarding, exciting and beautiful, yes, but I also know my limitations and have decided to honour them. Time will tell, but it makes me wonder if I always knew in my heart that I’d only experience it all once. I remember saying to myself repeatedly, “This could be the last time you [insert monotonous but meaningful task or experience with your baby here]”.

I’ve really tried to savour every step of the process thus far, and continue to do so. Life gives us no guarantees.

We moved out of my childhood home just over a month ago now. We had a nice two week stretch to ease me out of it. We got the keys on a Friday and used that first weekend to give the new house a good clean. I truly had no interest in going there at first. When I finally went on the Sunday I walked through crying (not happy tears). I found my way to the ensuite (something I’ve never had) and sat at the edge of the tub and cried.

I repeated over and over (and over), out loud, “What… have… I… done?”

That first week of our transition I spent time each day packing and moving small items to the new home. I found myself moving from room to room in the old house. Flashbacks (good and bad) flooding my mind. Sometimes I’d find myself smiling, but often not. It was the only house I’d ever known. Like moving on with my life without my Mom physically in it, I doubted I could do it. I truly felt that I was severing a part of myself that would change me intrinsically, forever.  I was progressing through a “Now what?” stage in my life. I was figuring it out as I went.

A week after getting keys we had our big move day. Furniture was being moved to the new home so we would be living there from now on. Thankfully we still had another week to ease me out of the old home. There were odds and ends that needed finalizing and tending to. Packing of items that hadn’t quite made the cut the first time around. Reflecting and reminiscing I had to get out of my system.

I had intended to spend a couple of days at the old house. On one of those days I’d hoped to write about Last Time’s. I had it planned and sorted in my head. That was going to help me feel peace during the transition, and after it.

And then a sick toddler happened, and those plans went out the window. I was almost there when daycare called. I promptly turned the van around.

In the end, I only spent a few hours at the house on the very last day it was mine. When I left that last time I wouldn’t ever be going back. For thirty years I’d always been able to ‘go home’. I wasn’t going to be able to, anymore.

Upon arriving I walked from room to empty room. I touched walls and windowsills. My footsteps echoed. I stared out the windows to burn the views into my mind. I reminisced about my memories in every corner of the home. Knowing it would be my last time allowed me to really appreciate it. To make the most of it. To walk away without regret.

As I drove away that day, having put my last house key in to the lock box on the door, I felt an appreciated sense of calm and acceptance. I’d shed the tears I needed to, and I just felt gratitude and peace.

It hit me that in our lifetime we will love many places, things, and people. They will shape us and we will shape them. They are important, and valuable, but it doesn’t mean we’re meant to stay forever. Like my son and his baby swing, we outgrow things. We outgrow people. We outgrow places. Instead of longing for what we had and getting stuck, frozen in our yearning, staying where we no longer ‘fit’, we must move out and move on.

It hit me then that the man who bought my house is a very good one. I thankfully got to meet him, and immediately liked him very much. We chatted with ease like we’d done it many times before. Our personalities are very similar. He loves his new home.

I realized then that the house wasn’t meant to be mine forever. Someone new loves it now. Maybe he will appreciate it more and better than I ever could. Happy memories will be made within its walls. New life is being breathed into the home the way new experiences, people, things and places can do for us.

It was time for change.

I’ve had chances to drive by the home since. I turn and acknowledge it, yes, but I am free of pangs of regret. I had time to process my last time and am at peace with it.

If only we always had that chance.

I guess when we ache over a last time it is a reminder of a love and appreciation we once had. It’s too bad that that fact alone can’t turn our brains off or keep us warm at night. What a shame that we can’t re-live moments we would do differently, if only we’d known. What a tragedy that we get so caught up in the stress of everyday life, our own emotions, or our belief that we’ll have another chance, that we take moments for granted. Even simple, every day interactions. People we assume will never leave. Places we’ve returned to so many times we figure we’ll always be able to.

There’s truth in the saying, “Live each day like it’s your last”.

Or, “Don’t live like you get a second chance”

Because sadly? We don’t.

So appreciate what you have while you have it, as much as you possibly can. Try to live and act in such a way that when you look back you will feel peace and acceptance with your last times.

If a last time is haunting you; because you wish you’d soaked it up better, said something differently, hugged a little longer, said “I love you” one last time, or maybe you wish you hadn’t said something at all, forgive yourself. Try to. Learn from this one. Stick that lesson in your back pocket and sit on it awhile. Let it serve as a reminder the next time around.

We don’t always know when an interaction with a person, place or thing may be our last. Do your best to treat it like it is.

Regret is heavy and so is shame. There are some things we’ll never be able to get back or change, no matter how hard we hope or wish. Let them go. Try.

And if worse comes to worse? Distract yourself with moments, people and places moving forward. Spend so much time soaking up the things that bring you joy, that you know are still yours, that you don’t wallow in the ones you’ve already lost.

Don’t waste or ruin last times moving forward, because you’re so fixated on the ones you can’t get back.

-C. Mom