Whit lost his third tooth this weekend. As usual, I cried as I hugged him, celebrated one of life’s passages even as I mourned it. Is there a more tangible marker of growing up than teeth falling out? I don’t think so.
Later that day, Grace and I were driving home from her soccer game and talking about Whit’s tooth.
“Does it make you sad, Mummy?”
“Well, yes, sort of, Grace. I mean, you know that.”
“But it doesn’t make you sad when I lose my teeth, right?”
I glanced back at her in the backseat, tousled from her season-ending soccer game, cheeks pink.
“Well, Grace, not really. It’s always the first time when something like that happens for you. And so it’s exciting.”
“And you know that Whit still has those things ahead, right? He’s your baby.” She was looking out the window.
“Well, yes.” Was she upset? I couldn’t tell. We drove in silence for a few moments.
“I get to have all the firsts. And Whit gets to have all the lasts.”
Of course, predictably, my eyes swam with tears behind my sunglasses. I nodded and swallowed. She’s right. And how immensely fortunate I am that my life contains so many of both.
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