I never make play dough anymore. Never. We used to always have homemade play dough around. I used to buy cream of tartar in bulk, because my favorite play dough recipe uses cream of tartar. Now a small jar in my cabinet is sufficient to meet my occasional need for snickerdoodles or lemon meringue pie. I bought Kool-Aid packets because Kool-Aid not only gives your play dough fantastic vibrant colors but also makes it smell amazing. And probably encourages small children to eat it too, but, hey, let's face it, many of my kids probably stuck way worse stuff in their mouths than play dough. But what is truly sad is I don't remember when it was that I made that I made that last batch. One day I threw away the latest mess of play dough, the original vibrant array of colors all merged into one lump of grayish brown, and I never made more. And no one complained, because they didn't feel the need for play dough in their lives anymore.
And that is the way with so many things. When was the last time one of my babies crawled into my bed in the middle of the night? I don't give nightly baths anymore. I don't even check on Fionn to make sure she got all the shampoo out. I don't tie anyone's shoes but my own. I don't bounce toddlers into a pair of pants like shaking an overstuffed pillow into a pillowcase. I depend on them to brush their own teeth at night and can't recall when I last bodily pinned a kid to the ground and pried open their little jaws to make it happen.
I don't clean crayon off the walls anymore, when once it was part of my weekly cleaning routine. All these things have just faded away. Once they were each a routine, sometimes monotonous or even annoying part of my life and then one day, without warning, they stopped. I didn't know when I was cleaning the last crayon from the walls that it was the last. I didn't know when I tied my littlest's shoes for the last time, that it was the last time. I didn't know when I grudgingly rolled over and shared my pillow with a little person at two am that she wouldn't be back the next night (and the next... and the next).
The tying of shoes, the brushing of teeth, the sleepless nights with babies and toddlers have given way to endless rides to class, to work, to parties and activities; to late nights helping with papers or studying for tests and just listening to the adventures and frustrations and triumphs of teenagers. And I know that, just like the experiences incident to having babies and toddlers in the home, these too will fade away into the past. I know because they already have in some cases. I still give lots of rides, and because we have lived in one place for a long time, those rides are frequently to the same places, but different teenagers sit beside me now as I drive to the Y, or to various stake centers in the city or to one of the college campuses in town. Sort of like how, much to my husband's bewilderment, there was crayon on my walls for about 15 years... but, as I explained to him, different toddlers were putting it there.
And that is why, even though I do still like to give my kids a hard time about the hours I spend in the car with them and not home doing the laundry, I don't really mind at all. In fact I like it. Especially if laundry is the alternative. Because I am very aware that in another year or two I won't get to spend daily time of any kind with some of these kids because they won't be kids anymore and they won't be in my house anymore and they won't need me the same way they need me now. Just like they ceased to need me to tie shoes or make them play dough, eventually they won't need me to help with homework or give rides. And even though I may not miss the specific experience of staying up all night encouraging (read that 'forcing') a sixteen year old to just write something already so that they have anything at all to turn in by the 11:59 pm deadline, I will really, really, really miss the time I have to even be in the same room with this person.
