When your children are small, there are nothing but firsts. First word, first steps, first day on the bus. But senior year of high school, there are nothing, it seems, but lasts. The last time I'll hear her in a school concert. The last time I'll see her playing a sport. This spring, there is a ball field on every corner, each filled with parents, coolers, younger siblings with their fingers looped through the back stop fence. I want to roll down my window and call out to those younger parents: Enjoy those metal bleachers. Don't complain about the cost of juice boxes. You never know how much you'll miss cutting up orange smiles for the team, until you stop cutting up orange smiles for the team.
