What I'll Miss

When you're grown, I'll miss you riding in the shopping cart, arranging all the cans in towers, boxes in rows. I'll miss you asking to visit the cookie and bread aisle for a free sample.

When you're too big, I'll miss you leaping into my arms from the couch, wrapping your limbs around me and saying you'll never let go.

When the preschool days are far behind, I'll miss you saying you love to hear me laugh. You telling knock knock jokes again and again, hoping to get me chuckling.

I'll miss you back there in your car seat telling me the trees, the signs, the cars, and the clouds are singing as we zip along to the YMCA.

I'll miss the sweaty smell of your head as you crawl into bed between Daddy and me, diving beneath the blankets to hide from the shadows.

I'll miss your strong voice, at the top of your power, singing the classic "Spiderman" theme song as we head out the front door, eyes looking around to see if you have an audience.

When you're too cool I'll miss coming downstairs to see you dancing wildly in the living room, the radio blasting whatever song fits your beat.

I'll miss how you love to record yourself singing ABBA: "Monday, Monday, Monday; in a rich man's squirrel."

When you're moved out, I'll miss checking on you before I go to bed, hearing you ask me questions in your sleep, waking abruptly in the night to you asking the time.

It might not seem so, but I'll miss wiping the jam from your nose, cleaning the honey from your fingers, trimming your toenails.

It's in the moment, in the magic, in the ordinary; what I'll miss is side by side with little you.