Fatherhood is a series of last times

Most slip by without notice.

My 2-year-old daughter Meredith fell asleep on me over the weekend. It’s one of those routine occurrences that suddenly becomes remarkable because of its rarity.

Not long ago, Meredith fell asleep on me all the time. She was a baby! But, during the past year, she’s started willing herself to stay awake until the lights are out, her door is closed and all hope of staying up is lost. My lap is now for playing or reading a book. Bed is for sleeping.

It took extraordinary circumstances for her to pass out on me this time. We’d been traveling all day and she was exhausted. I picked her up and laid her on my chest, as I’d done a hundred times or more when she was younger. She closed her eyes almost immediately.

I laid there with her for as long as I reasonably could, wondering whether it would be my last time to experience this as a parent. She’s our second child (we also have a 6-year-old son, Felix). We’re probably not having another one. Speaking for myself, I’m getting old and ready to move onto a life phase beyond parenting young children.

One thing lots of people tell you about parenting is that everything goes by so quickly. NPR’s Mary Louise Kelly wrote a beautiful book on the topic, appropriately titled, “It. Goes. So. Fast.” Many parents describe it as waking up one day and seeing their children grown. My mom recently told me she experienced that feeling on my high-school graduation day.

That is the retrospective view. Time passes differently in between birth and graduation day.

I’m experiencing fatherhood as a series of quiet last times. My children learn to correctly say words they used to mispronounce in adorable ways. My son Felix sadly no longer says “nilk” for milk. My daughter will stop saying “lolla” when she wants a banana, “hands” when she wants napkins or “eyes” when she wants sunglasses.

Felix, who is learning to read, will soon no longer ask me to translate written words. He’ll spend a last night with his blanky. He’ll stop asking for “Margot” and “Magglio,” his stuffed cats that look like his first pets, who have died.

The last times will become more significant. Felix and Meredith will stop believing in Santa. They’ll decide they’re too old to trick-or-treat. We’ll share a final Thanksgiving as four permanent residents of the same household. We won’t always recognize these moments for what they are. Endings. Beginnings.

Raising children goes quickly in the sense that life itself is short. But it’s also a gradual journey. It can feel agonizingly slow as we try to live up to the high stakes while also grappling with our limitations and emotional vulnerabilities. Our job is to prepare children to be more independent tomorrow than they are today. Failure is nerve-racking. Success is heartbreaking.

In my frantic efforts to balance parenting among other responsibilities, I often fail to observe the developments I’m helping to cultivate. When I catch one — when I’m present and aware as one of my children grows up before my eyes — I feel privileged to share in their progress.

As my daughter breathed on me in those heavy bursts for possibly the last time, I took a photo. I put down my phone and meditated on the weight of Meredith’s head on my chest and the searching movements of her hand as she got comfortable. I burned those sensations into the corner of consciousness reserved for my most vivid memories.

It’s possible I’ve already missed some other last time since then. That’s why I’m hanging onto this one. Long after Meredith stops reaching for my hand or needing me to put her shoes on, I will visit that place and remember what it felt like to provide peaceful rest to my sweet daughter. We can’t slow down parenting. We can only reflect on day-to-day changes as our children become the people they will be when they no longer need us.