The morning farewell
For the past twenty years, I've been driving my kids to school. Each morning, it’s the same routine: breakfast, backpacks, rushed goodbyes. Yet lately, these moments have taken on a different weight. They remind me of The Last Time by Sam Harris—a poignant reflection on how the small, everyday joys of parenting quietly slip away.
It’s hard not to think about that inevitable moment when your children stop looking at you with fascination. When their eyes no longer light up just because you’re there. At some point, that pure joy—of waking up to their parent, of being with someone they adore—fades. It’s bittersweet, because we know it’s natural. That kind of awe reappears later in romantic relationships, but even then, it’s fleeting.
With my eight-year-old, though, I still catch glimpses of it. Sometimes, as we say goodbye, there’s a hesitation in his step, a look that says staying with me might feel better than walking away. It’s subtle, but it’s there. At bedtime, he still clings to rituals we’ve shared for years. He insists on finishing our rhyme—“Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite”—and waits for my exact response. It’s not about the rhyme, really. It’s about the rhythm of connection, of putting off the inevitable goodnight for just a moment longer.
This morning was different, though. When I dropped him off, it wasn’t him holding on—it was me. I wanted to make the moment last, to stretch out our goodbye. To catch one last look, send him a heart sign, or whisper, “I love you” as he turned toward the school doors. But all I saw was his back—his small, yet not-so-small figure already walking away.
There’s a certain ache in realizing that these moments are fleeting. I know one day, he’ll no longer need the rhyme or the drawn-out goodbyes. But for now, I’m holding on to every little sign that he still does. And on mornings like today, I’ll remind myself that even as he moves forward, I’ll always be the one lingering, watching, loving—long after he’s out of sight.