When my kids come up to me, I don’t want to play or read them a book. I’m tired.

When my son and I both had Covid last year, we stayed in my room. We colored, played games, and read books. After a few days, I got tired of reading and coloring. I wanted to keep my mind occupied, and I left him to play his own video games and color his own pictures. He kept asking me to play or do something with him, but I didn’t.

For the rest of my life, I will never forget or let go of this dread that clings to me like a stench. When he needed me, I failed him. When I should have been the most empathetic to his plight, a little kid with nothing to do, I was too focused on my own needs. I felt shitty having Covid, but who knew that Covid was a walk in the park compared to knowing, for the rest of my life, how I let my five year old down.

As things get busier, we have less time together. I can’t believe grade school is so long and leaves only a few hours each day before bed time. How is this even legal? I don’t want to give my kids up anymore. The other kids don’t understand how awesome my kids are. They don’t get them like I get them, so they can’t appreciate them like I can. My kids are the best.

The act of mourning even the past few days gone by feels grossly pathetic and almost unappreciative of all the other days before us. We have so much to do and play. When you ask me for a song, I want to sing it. When you wish for a story, I want to have it written and ready. Let’s go and play Minecraft in a real desert, a forest, a jungle, or any other real-world biome we can explore. Let’s swim together, ride bikes, swap jokes, and share heart drenched laughter that I can tuck away in my pocket while no one is looking. I want to cherish and hold every bit of it in my palms and only let go of it when I let go once and for all.

Nevertheless, there will always be mourning. I will never stop missing my babies, my toddlers, my great little boys–I will miss them even as I squeeze them here in the present. I can disguise a forlorn smile as a celebration of what we’ve had, but truth be told, a chunk of me dies every time I notice that they are growing up. I struggle to swallow the bitter truth through brimming eyes: I will never, ever be able to rewind that clock that solemnly ticks onward.