Vistas

There's much I've missed recording about raising a one-year old, a two-year old and now a threenager.  Something that I deeply regret.

Hopefully, someday when I'm 80, I will be able to reminiscently stitch together the expeirence of motherhood these past three years through my Instagram feed.

Ironically, tonight, it was that very Instagram feed that taught me a lesson I've been hard-pressed to learn these past three years.

It was the end of bedtime.  The time when the child's head has actually made contact with the pillow:  The waning moments of wakefulness and waxing moments of relief. 

The routine has evolved these past three years, and now includes a brief backscratch before mom tiptoes around the squeeky floorboards and out the door.

While back scratching with one hand, and ever-feeling the need to multitask, I picked up my phone with my other hand to thumb-slide my way through the latest in pictoral updates.

And then I had this thought:

If I had spent 30 years saving for, planning for, living for a trip to Europe, would I spend my train rides from one destination to another with my face in my phone?

No.  No, I would not. 

I like to think I'd have my nose pressed against the window, craning my neck in an effort not to miss one single vista.

So why, why would I spend my unstructured time with my son--the one I saved for, planned for and lived for, for 30 years--unneedfully distracted?

I put my phone down.

A few seconds later, I noticed his feet.  Not baby feet, but little boy feet.  I saw with my true eyes how long his legs have grown recently and I suddenly felt a catch in my heart.

Not a baby, but a little boy.

"I love you," I whispered, with a fervency that I hoped would halt time a little.

Then I covered him with his blanket, and as I tiptoed around the squeeky floorboards and out the door, from the darkness of the room I heard his sweet little voice,

"Good night, mommy.  I love you, too.  See you tomorrow."