No one told me it would be the last time I rocked you to sleep. A cry in the night, the haze of a dimly lit room, our rocking chair worn brown. We were the only ones in a little world.

No one told me it would be the last time I carried you on my hip. The way my body shifted—you changed my center of gravity. Your little arm hooked in mine, a gentle sway I never noticed I was doing.

No one told me it would be the last time I pushed you on the bucket swing. Your sticky hands on the clanking chains, and an entire day gone by with a lost sock that didn’t matter.

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No one told me it would be the last time I took you to the library. You were part of a gaggle of kids perched on miniature chairs—books, songs, then snack time in a confetti of crumbs.

No one told me it would be the last time you sat in the grocery cart.  

We sang songs in the produce aisle and forgot everything on my shopping list. You were my sidekick for the memorable and mundane.

No one told me it would be the last time I read you a bedtime story. Cozy among your critters. Good Night Moon and Curious George—I could recite them line for line when I closed my eyes.

No one told me that one day you would have opinions, some different than mine. That you would have grit. You would have strength. You would have a voice. That I would teach you a little bit about these things.  

N1o one told me that one day you would grow and choose your friends, and the house I never thought would be quiet, will be quiet. There would be forts in the playhouse and pretend school. You would step away, but always find me again. I will always be your home base.

No one told me that one day you would see the world through your own eyes.  

Art projects would be littered on the floor, a half-drawn drawing, an invention that failed but still tinkering. I think your world will be a beautiful place.

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No one told me that one day you would want to spend time with me. We would skip the errands and get lunch. You would tell me about your art and the things you love. 

No one told me that one day you would be a reader—ferocious and insatiable. Bookshelves brimming—stories about cats and strong girls. You would read and I would listen.

No one told me that one day you would become a person, grown but still growing. Ten years of motherhood, and I learn every day the beautiful person you are becoming.  

No one told me.

But I wouldn’t have listened if they did.