I had to dash into the grocery store really quick yesterday.

I suppose the first thing to catch my eye about the young woman walking in just ahead of me on this unseasonably warm Fall afternoon was the flowy floral printed dress she was wearing. But, what really held my gaze was the little boy holding her hand. I was trying to guesstimate his age.  Maybe 7ish?

As we walked in, she grabbed a cart, but I didn’t.  There wasn’t much on my Empty Nester grocery list- milk, eggs, Coke Zero and wine – an armload at best. So, I didn’t really require a cart. These days we eat out, order in or make do. 

He was talking her ear off about his little-man day. She was listening. I was too. I was listening the way everyone within a mile of us listened to my boys once upon a time – by default…

And then I headed back to the refrigerator aisle, wondering when the last time my little boys held my hand in the grocery store. Like, seriously, when was the VERY LAST TIME?

That lady’s boy was a little on the older side, teetering on the brink, if you will… She might be nearing one of the last times he would hold her hand while walking in to the grocery store. I wondered if she was aware of that?  I bet not. Should I go tell her? I bet she was clueless. I think a small part of me (the exhausted part?) back in the day naively thought my children would always hold my hand as I we walked into the grocery store.

Endless little hands on endless grocery store runs for the endless gallons and gallons and gallons of milk we endlessly pursued…

I once read this gut-wrenching piece about how it’s good we don’t know the last time we do the things we do. The last time we nurse a baby, the last time we rock one, the last time we tie their shoe or read them a bedtime story or help with their homework. If you’ve never read it…don’t. Unless you actually want your gut wrenched.  

but…

On the brighter side of things, we truly never stop being mommies. I woke up with a startle at 3 am this morning and ran across the house with my heart racing to see if my boy made it home safely. The last thing I remember before I fell asleep last night was a text from him saying he was just leaving Dallas (9 pm) and could I leave a door unlocked (of course). I quietly tiptoed down the hall and ever-so-gently turned the doorknob of the spare bedroom so it wouldn’t creak and cracked it open a few inches – just enough so I could see in, but not enough that the light from the hall would wake him. 

And there he was. 

My baby boy. 

Almost bigger than the bed itself. I tskd-tskd a little about the state in which he was sleeping. He was lying diagonally with the sheets and blanket all tangled up in his limbs. I resisted an abnormally strong maternal urge to crawl in on all fours and make adjustments to his sleeping arrangement. I can assure you, had I done that, it would not have ended well, so I exercised remarkable restraint, backing out quietly and slithering back into my own bed (quite neat and orderly). And, believe it or not, I was actually able to fall back asleep secure in the knowledge that he was safe and sound.

He gets married in a few weeks. To the lovely girl I started praying for before she was even born. I prayed God would send someone who would love him as fiercely as I do. I prayed God would send someone who would rest in his strength, believe in his strength but also really see his tenderness and protect it. I prayed for a strong partner that would walk beside him in a world that’s not so very easy and that they would both never have their very worst day on the same day, so they can hold each other up. I prayed for someone who would laugh with him and share music with him and love their children with him. If they can have all of this, they’ll be happy.

And so will I.

And just one more thing I honestly didn’t think of back then…I’m hoping she will keep his sheets and blankets sorted out. I really don’t think that’s asking too much.