The other day Emily flipped our daughter’s car seat around.
Both of our kids are now forward facing in the back seats of our truck. Now, when I look in my rearview mirror, I see her looking back at me, rather than staring into the mirror that was mounted on the back seat headrest, that we could constantly make sure our baby was okay.
In the life of a toddler, the car-seat-flip is a huge moment, allowing them to view part of the world from an entirely new perspective. In the life of a parent, it’s a very real metric that reminds you that your kids are always growing up, no matter how much you don’t want them to.
Looking at my little girl in my rearview mirror and seeing her smiling back at me made me think of all the other little milestones that we’re experiencing for the last time with our daughter; how every time our little girl does something for the first time, it’s something Emily and I will experience for the last time.
Her first steps were our last first steps. Her first laugh was our last first laugh. In a few years, she’ll matriculate from daycare to kindergarten—our last first day of school.
It’s not like we have some litany of these things that we’ve already checked off. We’ve only done this parenting thing one other time. In fact, every first we’ve ever experienced as parents has only been experienced one time before.
Still, it’s hard knowing that Emily and I will never experience these firsts again.
I’ve always tried to practice presence in my life. Even at an early age, it was never difficult for me to recognize the miracle of moments; how any one thing is only happening in the universe at that precise moment, and nothing else exactly like it will ever happen again.
I’ve also always tried to recognize the value in the bigness of certain moments, specifically in those things that happen the first time.
I remember the morning after first time Emily and I slept together and I remember thinking how that might be the last time I fucked someone new (I really liked her when we met. I still do).
I remember the first time I went skydiving, thinking how I’d never again not know what it felt like to fly through the air.
I remember the feeling of my first tattoo, paying extra special attention to the way it felt, the way it made me feel. Twenty-some tattoos later, it’s a feeling I know all too well and it’s easy to forget how that wasn’t always the case.
As a father, I try to be as present as possible. Present in body, sure. But also present in mind. Some days are easier than others. But when I do, when I really lock in and see my babies experiencing the world around them, recognizing that this moment, like all moments, are as fleeting as they are unique. It’s a profound feeling, especially when those moments are quantifiable, as they are whether they’re firsts or last firsts.
Emily and I still have a lot of firsts left. Her first words. Our son’s first day of kindergarten. Both of their first loves and first heartbreaks. But someday very soon, someday when they get to be around my age, there won’t be anymore monumental firsts. Which means there won’t be anymore last firsts for us to dwell in, to realize that, while our kids are our kids forever, they’re only our babies for a few very brief moments.
Very well said. I remember having all of the same feelings you're having with my second son. But then my wife insisted that we have a third, so I guess I get another go around. The experience is still different for each kid. It reminds me of the Heraclitus quote: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”