I’m afraid to write it down, as though by acknowledging it, drawing attention to it, making figurative eye contact with it, will make it disappear.

My children, my teenager and my pre-teen, still want me around. And not just around to provide snacks and drive them places. But actually around. And in public, too.

There’s a tweet that circulated a while ago that punches mothers in the belly by reminding us that there’s a last time you’ll pick up your child. And there are one million tear-jerking poems on the same subject. And what’s worse is that like so many finales that life throws at us, we won’t realize the last time is the last time, so we don’t even notice it. We’re not even given the option of holding the moment and etching it into our mind’s eye.

While I got a lump in my throat thinking about it, I refuse to cry. There are a lot of “last times” in motherhood. There’s a last time your child asks for help wiping his bum, and you don’t see anyone sobbing about that. 

And what’s so great about picking up a kid, anyway? They’re all sharp elbows and knees by the time we put them down for the last time.

No, not all ‘last times’ are sad. And while I can’t pick up my biggest child anymore, I can get him to help me reach the high shelves and move the living room furniture, so there’s a bright side.

But there are a couple of ‘last times’ I will cry over. One is the bedtime routine, including the tucking in. I get up way earlier than they do these days, and throughout the summer my youngest took to tucking me in occassionally as a result. The other is the last walk to school. I figured it was coming. In fact, I figured I’d gone on the last walk to school at the end of Grade 5. But last week when Grade 6 arrived there he was, my 11-year-old, waiting by the door telling me to hurry up or we’d be late.

“Oh! Yup, I’m coming,” I shouted as I raced down the stairs, afraid to make a big deal about it, afraid that he’d suddenly realize he’s too old to walk with me, or that I’m too embarrassing, or my shoes are too noisy, or that I talk too loudly and about the wrong things.

I tiptoed around him like I might a racoon that I’m trying to tame; desperate not to seem too eager, or to move too quickly, or to act too excited.

And so off we went, walking in the sunshine, chatting like a whole summer hadn’t just passed, as though he’s not the oldest kid in his school this year, as though I’m not having the best morning I’ve had in months and feeling slightly intoxicated and giddy at being unexpectedly included. 

They still want me around and I’m not sure why.

When I took them back to school shopping at the mall, I asked if they wanted me to leave them alone and show up later with my credit card. They looked at me sideways.

“No. We can shop with you.”

Certainly, kids still need their parents, but I expected them to drift away. I expected them to treat me like they treat their coats in winter and pretend I don’t exist.

Whatever is happening, it’s a surprise and a joy. I’m managing, somehow, to be both parent and friend and I’m clinging to it all while trying not to look too desperate, giving away my hand.

When this school year ends, when he stops about 100 metres from the field, turns, says, “goodbye mom, love you,” and runs toward his friends I’ll know it’s the last time.

I see it coming.

And I’ll cry the whole way home, gutted but grateful that I snuck another year in.