We are working diligently to get our condo ready to put on the market, which means clearing out the clutter. This is similar to packing: you go through a lot of old pictures, and objects that you have saved because you knew that they would stimulate good memories.
As I go through this tedious exercise, I find that I have this ache in the pit of my stomach most of the time. All these memories, coming all at once, are hard to take.
I realize that everything happens only a limited number of times.
As I place aside the jumper to give to the Salvation Army, I am reminded that, of course, my children are far too old to jump in it any longer. Their time to do that has come and gone. When I watched them jump in it, I didn’t think that such things would come to an end. But they have.
Everything happens only a limited number of times.
When we walk towards the King’s Head restaurant in Santa Monica, as we do almost every Friday night, one of my children always wants to run ahead with one parent, and hide from the other parent and child. But the day will come when that, too, will end. For one thing, when we move, it will be harder to get to the King’s Head in the first place. And those few times that we go, there will only be a few more times that they will want to play the hiding game.
One day, Christi and I will say: “Don’t you guys want to hide?” and they will both say: “No, Dad. No, Mom. That’s for little kids.”
You have to cherish these times. Because they happen only a limited number of times.
And then they’re gone.