But Today

Yesterday, I felt relief as I watched my son hurry up the sidewalk toward his school.  His beloved Spiderman backpack jiggled with each step.  It was light and bouncy on his back because all he had in it was his matching Spiderman folder and a little white envelope holding his lunch money.
   
I waited at the curb while he pulled on the heavy metal door with all his two-fisted, first grade might.  With a glance back at me and a seven-year-old grin, he released the handle to pop inside before the door clanged shut.
Relief.
         
Yesterday, I felt no guilt for my sense of relief.  The time my son would be in school seemed like such a treat.  So I headed to the local grocery store with my daughter buckled in her car seat behind me.  Her three-year-old voice was high pitched and bubbly, carrying on an elaborate conversation between the two princess dolls in her lap.  Inside the store, as I pushed my little girl in the oversized cart with the red, plastic car in the front and the wheels that thump, thump, thumped, I could not help thinking how much more relaxing shopping is with just one child with me. 
Relief.
   
In fact, the whole day seemed to be stretched out wide before me.  It was a gift of peace.  Almost luxurious.  I would have seven hours of no arguing over who got more milk in their cups.  There would be no fighting over the crayons and most of all, no one would be running up to me yelling, “MOOOOOMMMMMM, SHE WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE!”.
Relief.

But today, as I see my son about to slip inside the school building, the grin he throws back to me grabs my attention.  And then I really see him.  His face seems thinner, the chubby cheeks gone and his chin is more squared like his dad's.  That baby-toothed smile and those eyes blazing with his ever-present excitement melts me.  Wait…oh…he‘s gone. 
Regret.
         
This creature...

This concoction of his dad and me... 

This boy who once depended on me for everything, and now spends most of his waking moments trying to push me back so he can claim his independence just disappeared behind that metal.  As the door clanks, I am left feeling so much regret for not enjoying him more, yesterday.
         
Today, I worry he will lose his first baby tooth during the day, maybe at recess while playing dodge ball.  I am afraid that the next grin I see from him will be one with a big, gaping hole.  The unarguable evidence that he‘s growing up.  I’m scared the grin he just flashed will be his last one as my little boy, and I didn’t even have a camera with me to capture it. 
Regret.
         
Today, I’m struggling as I pull away from the curb.  I have to fight the urge to run inside after him for a quick hug and an embarrassing kiss.  He used to give me big sloppy kisses all the time, but it’s been years since I’ve had one of those.  Now I have to sneak up behind him and steal one.  I have to catch him by surprise and plant one on him quickly, before he pulls away in feigned disgust.  I can’t even remember the very last time he gave me one of those sweet baby kisses.  I must have thought there would be many more to follow, so I didn’t freeze-frame the image in my mind. 
Regret.
         
I have seven hours until I see my son again, and I begin to wonder how to spend the time.  Yesterday, my little girl and I went to the grocery store, but today I think we’ll take a trip to our favorite park so we can soak up some of this glorious sunshine.  And swing. 

And slide.  She loves to climb up the ladder of the tallest slide and wave to me from the tippy-top; all happy and proud that she did it all by herself.  Just like her brother, she is finding her own independence.  It won’t be long before she will be disappearing behind that metal school door, too. 
   
Yesterday, I thought I was graced with a gift when I dropped my son off at school. Today, I realize the present I missed.  Tomorrow, relief will most likely return, but for right now...I know I'm going to miss him.  So today, while he's gone, I'm going to relish in my daughter.  I am going to relish all of her big, juicy kisses, in case she wakes up tomorrow refusing to give them. 

First I think I’ll run by our house to pick up the camera.  I want to get a few more of her little grins on film so that I can always relish and remember.