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You Never Know When It's the Last Time
Published 3/3/26
There's a moment every parent experiences but never sees coming.
The last time you pick them up before they get too heavy. The last time they mispronounce a word before they say it right. The last bottle. The last "pick you up" instead of "pick me up."
The phases don't announce when they're ending. They just quietly blend into the next one.
And you only realize they're gone when you're standing in the middle of the new phase, looking back, wishing you'd held on a little tighter.
THE STORY
I heard a story recently that's been living rent-free in my head ever since.
It was about a father who woke up in the middle of the night.
His baby was crying. He got up, walked to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and made a bottle in the dark, half asleep, but his hands knew what to do.
He brought it to his daughter. She drank. Then he went back to bed.
Years passed.
Middle of the night. He woke up again.
This time, no cry. Just a small voice. "Daddy, I'm thirsty."
He got up. Walked to the kitchen. Opened the same cabinet. But now it was full of sippy cups.
He filled one with water. Brought it to his toddler. She drank. He watched. Then he went back to bed.
More years passed.
Middle of the night. He woke up again.
Footsteps in the hallway. A knock on the door. "Dad, can I have some water?"
He got up. Walked to the kitchen. Opened the same cabinet. This time, he grabbed a glass.
He filled it. Handed it to his daughter. She took it, said thanks, and went back to her room.
He went back to bed.
More years.
Middle of the night. He woke up.
But this time, there was no cry. No voice. No footsteps.
Just his phone lighting up on the nightstand.
A text from his daughter: "Staying out late, but I'll be home soon. Love you."
He smiled. Texted back. Went to bed.
Then one more time.
Middle of the night. He woke up.
But this time, it was just habit. His body had learned to wake, even when there was no one to tend to.
He got up anyway. Walked down the hallway. Stopped at her old room. The door was closed. The room was quiet.
He pulled out his phone and typed: "I miss you. Can't wait for you to visit."
Then he went back to bed.
YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN IT'S THE LAST TIME
That story wrecked me. Because it's true, isn't it?
You never know when it's the last time.
The last bottle. The last time they say "ah-dange" instead of "orange." The last time they reach up and say "pick you up."
One day, you do the thing. And then one day, you just…don't. And you can't even remember when the last time was.
THE PHASES DON’T WAVE GOODBYE
My son used to say "pick you up" when he wanted me to hold him.
Then one day, he said "pick me up, Mommy."
And I didn't even notice when the last "pick you up" happened.
He used to call oranges "ah-dange."
Now he says it correctly.
And I have no idea when that shifted.
The phases don't wave goodbye. They just leave. And you only realize they're gone when you catch yourself missing them.
THE GUT-PUNCH REMINDERS
My phone likes to surprise me with memories.
A notification pops up: "3 years ago today."
And it's always a gut punch.
My son with puree smeared all over his squishy baby face.
A picture of my husband and me from years ago, fewer wrinkles, more light in our eyes.
My dog when we first got him, before the white fur crept around his chin.
They always hit me the same way: How did we get here so fast?
WHY I PRINT THEM
I don't want to forget. I don't want to forget the "ah-dange" phase.
I don't want to forget the way he used to say "pick you up."
I don't want to forget the mornings he'd climb into bed with us, warm and sleepy, smelling like baby shampoo.
Because one day, those moments will feel like a lifetime ago. And I'll wish I could go back (minus the sleep deprivation)—just for a minute—and live in them one more time.
That's why I print them.
HOW MONTHBOOKS HELP YOU HOLD ON TO IT
Every month, I make a Monthbook.
I pick 30-60 photos from that month. The good ones, the blurry ones, the ones where everyone's a little disheveled.
And I print them.
Not because every moment is perfect.
But because every phase matters.
Monthbooks help me collect and savor the season I'm in, so that long after it's over, I can flip back and feel it all over again.
The bottle phase.
The sippy cup phase.
The "ah-dange" phase.
The "pick you up" phase.
They're all worth keeping.
Because you never know when it's the last time. But when you print them, you get to hold on to them forever.
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