Every Moment

It's midnight and I'm still awake.

From down the hall I hear an anguished cry; my four-year old is awake. He sleeps through most nights these days, so this is unusual. I get up and pad down the hall to his room.

He's sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes. I lay down next to him and give him a big hug. "Are you ok?" I ask. He nods and grips me tightly.

After a few minutes, he's seemed to calm down enough and I try to extract my tangled limbs. But he's not asleep and clutches me like he's drowning. "Cuddles, Mommy?"

No, buddy, Mommy has to sleep in her own bed. The words form on my lips, and then I remember and think, Why? Why can't I stay here with him? The baby is asleep in my bedroom, and Daddy is there if he needs anything. Why can't I stay here with my big boy tonight?

A few days ago, I read a heartbreaking story about a mom with terminal cancer. She had more or less come to terms with the fact she was not going to be around to watch her children grow up, and was just making the best of her time. She was writing letters to her children, to be read on special occasions, when she would not be there with them, and more importantly, trying to make sure her kids had great memories of her to hold on to when she was gone.

I don't have cancer. But for the most part, none of us knows how much time we have on this earth, with our loved ones. I am not trying to be morbid, but it's important for me to know, if I were to walk out the door and get hit by a bus tomorrow, that my children's memories of me would be happy ones. And while some bloggers use this platform to write letters to their children, mine doesn't usually fall into that category. So I made an agreement with myself.

I decided to try, every day, to imagine that I had a short time left to live. To make decisions with that in mind. Because it might be true. When I lay dying, what will I be thinking? What would I regret? What would I want them to remember? I would regret the minutes and hours I spend yelling every day and week. I would wish for more time to breathe in the smell of their hair. I would wish I had let that article go unread or that Facebook game unplayed so that I could cuddle up and read or sit down and play trains. I would wonder what their memories of me would be, and I would wish for happiness. I want them to remember that I was there for them when they needed me. I wish for them to know my love, always.

Why can't I stay here with my big boy tonight? There is no good reason.

So I don't say, "No, baby." Tonight, I whisper, "ok," and cuddle down with my baby, who is growing so fast. I pet his hair and watch him breathe. We fall asleep together, in peace, and I hope he remembers times like these.