I can’t remember the last time I held you like that.
The last time you were all curled up on my chest, tiny knees tucked in, your breath warm and soft against my neck. The last time you fell asleep on me, mouth open, completely at peace.
I know there was a “last time,” but I didn’t see it coming. There wasn’t a moment where the world stopped and said, This is it. There was no photo, no milestone, no reason to mark the day. It just… happened.
One day, I was holding you and thought I’d get to do it forever. And then, without realizing it, I didn’t anymore.
If I’d known it was the last time, I think I would’ve held you tighter. Maybe cried a little. Maybe whispered, “Don’t grow up too fast.” I probably would’ve taken a picture, written something down, anything to remember it. But I didn’t know. And tonight, for the first time, that hit me.
You asked if you could lie on my stomach like you did when you were a baby.
Of course I said yes. We tried. We laughed, fumbled around, trying to make it work. But we just couldn’t get comfortable, you’ve grown too big, and I’ve grown too small to hold you the way I used to.
So, we snuggled instead.
I sang your song, the one I made up when you were only a week old, back when I thought I was tired, but really, I was just in awe of you. I sang it the same way I’ve always done, slow, soft, a little off-key. You smiled.
It wasn’t the same as those early nights, when you’d melt against my chest and I’d pat your tiny back to the rhythm of my song. But that’s okay. Tonight, we had our own version of that. We had our “instead.”
And as I watched you drift off, I realized this is how life will go from now on, a series of instead.
You’ll outgrow the moments I once thought would last forever, and in their place, we’ll find new ones.
One day, you’ll want to spend Christmas with your in-laws, so we’ll celebrate Christmas Eve instead.
You’ll hurt your knee doing one of your wild stunts, and instead of our morning runs, we’ll walk and talk instead.
You might not want a big wedding, maybe you’ll elope, or skip it altogether. That’s okay. We’ll celebrate love over dinner instead.
And when you finally realize that no, I can’t find you a real unicorn, I’ll get you a horse instead.
I don’t care what the “instead” looks like, as long as I’m there with you. That’s what matters to me, growing alongside you, learning how to let go of what was and make room for what’s next.
You’re growing so fast, and every day I see more of the beautiful, strong person you’re becoming. Sometimes I still see the baby who used to fit in my arms, and sometimes I see the woman you’re becoming and both make my heart ache in the best way.
I’m sorry you can’t lay on my chest anymore. But you know what? That’s okay. It’s one of many instead, and I’m here for all of them every change, every new phase, every quiet snuggle that replaces the one before.
I’ll take every instead, because it still means I have you.
And that’s all I’ll ever need, Bug.
