“Maxwell, come up here,” Roger said to Max, many, many times.”
Max dragged his blanket with one hand and used the other to balance himself as he stood and walked from the end of the bed to the middle of me and Roger.
I pulled the blanket back so he could snuggle in.
“We really have to figure something out,” I said.
“I know,” Roger said.
Roger and I didn’t mind the boys sleeping in our bed. When they were babies, they never slept in their cribs. It was not weird to have a couple kids in there at a time.
With each of them it took time to finally convince them to sleep in their own rooms. We started with a bed on the floor in our room, then they gradually made it to their own. Sometimes, like in the case of Max in the beginning of this story, they would relapse and sneak back into our room. We wouldn’t notice them until hours later.
I remember at times feeling too warm, or not sleeping well because of too much snoring, little feet in my face, or the blankets stolen from me, and I would become irritated and stand in the kitchen staring at nothing the next morning while I sipped my coffee. I miss feeling irritated about that.
We truly don’t know we’re in the good moments until they’re in the past. It’s some type of horribly mean phenomenon that we all go through. There are many sayings about it like, “You don’t know what you got until it’s gone” or “I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.” (Andy Bernard)
Why is that? Why?