By Nikki Specht 
I almost missed it, my little one. How your eyebrows lift in quiet concentration as you carefully place each block, adding a new wall to your tiger castle. The way you say “scoop over, mom” and shuffle closer to me until our legs touch.
“Just one second, bud.” The mantra of all busy moms.
I almost missed your blonde hair flying wild as you bounce on the trampoline, that belly laugh that makes the whole world feel soft. I almost missed it. How you close your eyes as you crack the biggest, cheekiest smile when I tickle your belly, giggling until we both forget the rest of the world. How you curl in my lap and whisper, “I wyv you, Mommy,” and ask to read your truck book for the hundredth time.
I was almost doing a grocery order, getting your favorite pears we ran out of. I was doing it for you, I thought it was more important. But then I looked up.
And almost missed it.
I almost missed it, my middle guy. How you run extra fast in the yard, looking down at your shoes to make sure they light up with every step. The way you grab your baseball bag, put on your hat and batting gloves and say, “Hey, Mom, can you play baseball with me?”
“Just give me a minute, kiddo. Hold on.”
I almost missed when you pick out a book at the library and say, “Let’s get this for sissy, she’ll like it.” How your dirty blonde hair is getting darker with the seasons, and your little hand still finds mine, still squeezes back. The way your mouth is covered in the purple and red of a homemade popsicle, as you ask me for another with a big smile.
I was responding to the email invite for your friend’s birthday party. Texting his mom asking for a good gift idea. I was doing it for you, I thought it was more important. But then I looked up.
And I almost missed it.
I almost missed it, my firstborn. How you crinkle your nose and throw your head back with a cackle when you steal a slice of the orange I am peeling, certain I wouldn’t notice. How your dimples still pop when you laugh. The way you still jump into my arms every morning and ask me to play with you.
“Sure, hunny, just let me finish this real quick.”
How your fingers have become slimmer, more grown now. I almost missed it, when you ask me to scratch your back, then reach for my other hand as you drift to sleep. I almost missed it when you tell me every detail of your playground story, your eyes lighting up in the world you built with your friends at recess.
I was looking up the dance class you want to join, making sure it wasn’t already full. I was doing it for you. I thought it was more important. But then I looked up.
And I almost missed it.
I almost missed it, my love. When you smile at me as you walk in the door, tired but still soft. When the kids run and climb on you, and you make them all squeal with chaos and love. I almost missed it, when we are chopping vegetables and you tell me a story about your work day.
“Sorry, I’m trying to listen, I just need a sec.”
I almost missed how you look at me and laugh when I, once again, drop my contact case on the bathroom counter. The way we sit down after bedtime, the quiet finally ours, and you share a new idea for the weekend, or a new project you’ve been working on.
I was searching for hotel rooms and tickets for our trip, trying to plan a great adventure. I was doing it for us. I thought it was more important. But then I looked up.
And I almost missed it.
I almost missed it today. How the wind rustles my hair as I walk. A mother bird flying over to her babies, their tiny beaks reaching out of the birdhouse, hoping for food. I almost missed it as a neighbor waves, a stranger smiles, a child scooters by. The way the clouds float above, the sun sets softly on the horizon. I almost missed it when I finally sat down with my favorite cup of tea, the cat crawling into my lap. A great book resting next to me, waiting to be read.
I was answering a message, checking the time. I was emailing the school, making an appointment. Clearing another thing from the to-do list. I was doing it for me, for my family. I thought it was more important. But then I looked up.
And I almost missed it.
All important things—but not more important.
Never more important.
This is all there is.
The hum of the dishwasher, the giggle of a child, the holding of a loved one’s hand. The connection with your spouse.
The dimples and mispronounced words, the rambling stories spun from imagination, the phone call from an aging parent.
The glow of the sun, the chirping of the birds and scurrying of the squirrels, the purring of the cat.
The taste of your favorite tea. The ending of a great book you couldn’t put down.
It is everything.
I’m so glad I chose to look up.
And to think, I almost missed it.
Originally published on the author’s Substack
by Jennifer Worrell 
