It is a funny phenomenon—as soon as my kids are in bed, and I am lying in my own, I miss them. The reason I find this strange is not that my kids are un-missable beings, in fact they are amazing little creatures that anyone would miss, but because on most days I have spent the entire day with them. And, to be honest, by about 1 hour before bedtime, I am ready to be by myself for a bit. Every night, after dinner is done and the kids are running manically through the playroom, I begin to feel itchy- itchy for the day to be done and for me to be in the comfort of my warm bed. But then, an hour and fifteen minutes later, I find myself wishing I could re-do the entire hour. I replay the scene in my head. And, most times, it is inevitable that I would have lost my patience- just a bit-at some point. When Max refused to stop running through the hallway and accidently knocks Alex over. Or, when Alex insists he needs to put all of his pajama parts on all by himself despite the tricky zipper in the back. I want to undue the irritation in my voice, or my sigh. I want to give each of them another hug, tell another story, or, at least not cut short the lame story I came up with. I think about how my mom will read endless books to Max at night, and I wish I would have done the same. I wonder if he sleeps better on those nights, if he goes to bed feeling more loved, more comforted. I vow to do better the next day.

It is in that hour, just after bedtime, when I remember that these days won’t last forever. If I am already missing the previous hour that slipped through my hands, how am I going to feel about months or years that seem to evaporate in an instant? I try to remember to not be so itchy the next day. To spend more time on the floor working on puzzles, or answering endless “why” questions that bring back memories of my dissertation defense. To walk outside and just look at the grass, and the bugs, and to notice that the crack in the sidewalk is in the shape of an “M”. Basically, to spend the time to soak up every last ounce of their sweetness, their innocence, their curiosity- them.

The next morning, I hear soft padding footsteps in my room and feel the cold feet of a preschooler on my calves. I turn over and Max whispers, “can I tell you about my dream? I dreamed about the horse from your story last night and I know what happens next.” And, as he proceeds to fill me in on the second part of the story, I realize that sometimes, despite the critic in my head at 7:15 pm, sometimes I may do things just right.