The firsts and the lasts

Reading this poem is bittersweet.  A friend posted it on FB in a post that was right after the cutest pic of my sleeping baby niece wearing a crocheted outfit.  I thought about all those times when sleep was a central character in the cast of my life.  Oh if only the baby would sleep.  Oh we must keep the baby on a schedule or he will be ruined forever.  Oh we can't have him sleeping in our bed, he'll be in high school before we can get him out.  As my baby had his last first day of high school and his last first football game and my other baby had her first day of high school and is (hopefully, fingers crossed and prayers said) going to be asked to her first dance, my life came flashing by.  Flashes of babies sleeping on my chest, sleeping in my bed, waking me in the night, waking me in the morning, driving the car trying to get one to nap.  And I'm reminded of all those last firsts and moments.  Moments in time.  Moments that may or may not have been captured (most likely in my case not since I'm a terrible journeler--one of those perfectionistic traits I've talked about before).  They are there though, still clear, the feeling of the baby relaxing on your chest.  The even breathing.  The sweaty little head against your sweatier chest.  The feeling of wanting to relax but knowing the dishwasher needs emptying.  I find myself these days, on the eve of my 50th birthday, more and more letting things go and taking a walk or writing in this "journal."  Of course my house is going to Hell but hey, I'm not going to miss these lasts and firsts, so if my knick knacks are dusty and there's a dandelion the size of a tree by my front steps, please forgive me because I've written today's entry.