It doesn’t happen so much anymore. Maybe that’s why I take note, both allowing the moment to be seared in my memory and constantly scribbling the silent thoughts that never roll off my tongue. Prior to last month, the last time my oldest son held my hand was nearly a year ago. We were at a theme park and he and I had tackled quite a frightening roller coaster. As we walked away from the ride, his hand reached for mine and in that moment, my joy overshadowed the extreme reluctance, dread and fear of those moments before.

This time, we had gone on a whim with friends for an overnight at an indoor waterpark and left young Amos at home. To travel without our most cherished family member is always bittersweet, but taking a special needs two year old can make things not always fun for everyone else. On this trip of rare freedom, I had agreed to ride the scariest slide available with my eldest and important to point out, the one with the most steps. I went again and again as I wanted him to remember me as that mom, the one that said yes, not often, but when it really counted.

As we walked to find his siblings, he reached for my hand. So very often, I still reach for his and he pulls away too quickly for me to properly inventory the moment. This time he was returning my love in a way he knew I would appreciate. I had considered that same touch last year so many times and wondered if it should be marked in my inventory of “last times.” No, it would not. Some day he will take a ride with his son or daughter and he will hold a still small hand and I like to think, he will smile and remember the mother that loved him more than gold or silver.