We were cooking today, her and me. Measuring together, talking, smelling spices, adding milk. As I caught a glimpse of her sitting licking the spoon, I caught a dull hard jab in the middle of my chest. And I was overwhelmed with missing her … in advance.
You see, I have been filling in forms this week. Forms that accept the place for my youngest in full-time school. Forms that end this intense, hard, sweet time of having kids at home.
As of next year, I am a free-ish woman in school hours. As of next year I don’t have to worry about swimming lessons; or crèche spots; or packing snacks and colouring for when she comes with me to my meetings.
It’s hard this season, this season of knowing it’s your last. I am trying so hard to make sure I enjoy this time, but every now and again I get knocked sideways by how much I’m going to miss her.
It is a bittersweet time, and I am determined to suck every last drop out of it. To enjoy the quiet lunches of just her and me; to listen smilingly to the sound of her singing through the house (in quiet rest-time); to really engage in the chats in the car as we go to get the groceries.
I know there will be times when I fail, and like today it hits me hard. But I am determined that I will enjoy the moment, rather than mourn what is coming. Because I’m pretty certain there will be a time for buckets of tears next year.