You’re Gonna Miss This

There he is in the picture. Bear. All black fur and soft snores, stretched out across my side of the bed like he owns the place. And in a way, he did. The price of loving big was half the blankets and a cold shoulder for me, just so he could sprawl however he liked.

I look at that photo and I can hear it. The creak of the bed frame when he’d hop up, the shuffle of paws circling, settling in. Sometimes I’d wake up clinging to the edge, six-foot-eight with barely enough room to turn over. But I never minded. He was always welcome.

This picture reminded me of when the kids were little. They’d do the same thing. Slip under the covers in the middle of the night, hair damp from dreams they couldn’t quite shake off. And just like Bear’s sweet face here, that’s what I remember now. Their sweet faces, fast asleep, drooling on my pillow. Little feet pressing against my side, elbows in my ribs, blankets stolen without a second thought. And I let them. I wanted them to come in. I wanted them to know they were safe. That they could find me in the dark, any time. I was always available.

It’s funny, the things you think you want. Back then, you wish for space. For a bed that’s yours alone. For a night without a kid’s foot in your back or a dog’s heavy snore in your ear. You wish for quiet. Until you get it.

For us, it started back in 2019 when the boys graduated. One by one, they crossed that stage in their caps and gowns. Tall. Proud. Eyes fixed on something bigger than this house. Bigger than the walls that raised them. You cheer. You clap. You take the photos. You say you’re ready. They say they’re ready. Off they go to chase down their dreams.

And they did. We packed up the cars and took them. Boxes of clothes. A few things they’d need to feel grown and ready. A favorite blanket. A lamp. That comforter they picked out for a dorm room that didn’t feel like home yet.

And the rest? Little things. Bits and pieces they didn’t think to take. A trophy on a shelf. A few old notebooks. A box of school art projects tucked down in the basement, just waiting for them to find again someday.

One day they’ll pull off the lid and there it will be. A piece of who they used to be. Maybe it will take them back, just for a minute, to when they were young and wishing life would hurry up. Just like I did. Just like we all do.

And over the next few years, the last three followed right behind. Each one crossed that same stage, eyes bright with plans and promises. More cars packed. More quiet rides to their new homes. One bedroom empty, then two, then all of them.

And now here we are. The nest just about empty. The house quieter than it’s ever been. The hallways that once carried slammed doors and whispered phone calls echo now with the silence of nothing at all. The shoes by the door are mine. Not muddy sneakers or boots kicked off in a hurry. Just mine.

Funny, isn’t it? All those years I thought I wanted more space. More calm. More time to myself. I used to stand in the doorway, kids tangled up like puppies in my bed, Bear hogging the covers, and think someday, I’ll get my bed back. I didn’t know that someday would come with an ache in my chest. I didn’t know I’d stand in the doorway now, listening to the silence of nothing at all, wishing I could go back and squeeze in tighter beside all that noise.

We all do it.

But if you look back, can you still see that little girl at nine? That little boy at eleven? Can you see yourself before you got where you are now? What would that kid say to you about all the time from then to now? Would they tell you to rush through it or hold it tighter?

Sometimes I hear that Trace Adkins song, “You’re gonna miss this. You’re gonna want this back.” And I do. I’d give anything for one more night of tangled blankets, a cold nose pressed against my leg, a small voice saying, “Dad, can I sleep here?”

I don’t wish time away anymore. I feel it pressing on me. A reminder to hold what’s here. The mess was the miracle. The noise was the music. The love was the reason the bed was too small in the first place.

So let Bear hog the bed. Let the kids crawl in. Let the blankets get kicked to the floor and the mornings come too soon. One day you will stand in a quiet house and wish you could have it all back. The paws. The feet. The noise. The chaos.

Because this is what you’re gonna miss.

Hold it close.