I've spent years wishing I'd had more time with my parents. Lately, I've been thinking about what that really means.
My mom died when she was 64. I was 33.
My dad died eight years later, at 73. I was 41.
For most of my adult life, I've wished I'd had them longer.
Not only because I needed more years with them, although I certainly did.
I wanted those years for my children too.
My oldest was five when my mom died. My middle child was almost one. My son hadn't been born yet.
By the time my dad died, my son was three. He has only vague memories of him.
My children didn't really get to grow up with grandparents.
I remember when my son's school had Grandparents Day. Someone asked him why he didn't have anyone there and he simply told them his grandparents were dead.
He was just answering the question.
But it made me incredibly sad.
There would be no sleepovers at Grandma and Grandpa's house. No special relationship that belonged just to them. No years of family dinners and holidays and stories that eventually became part of their own memories.
And there were so many times I wanted my mom for myself.
When I didn't know what to do with my kids.
When my marriage was difficult.
When I needed advice, or a shoulder to cry on, or simply someone to celebrate something with.
Sometimes you don't want advice from just anyone.
You want your mom.
I've often looked at people my age who still had one or both of their parents and yearned for what that might have been like.
I have cousins who got that.
Their children grew up with grandparents. There were family gatherings and years of memories. Their parents lived long enough to know their great-grandchildren.
My uncle died in his 80s. My aunt turned 93 this spring.
I reconnected with them after my marriage ended, and I'm so grateful I did. I used to drive out to their home in the country to visit. I still visit my aunt now.
She's always happy to see me.
We reminisce about old times. Her mind is beginning to slip a little. She may not always be able to bring up my name, but her long-term memory is still quite good.
There is a part of me that looks at the years my cousins had with their parents and thinks, I wish we'd had that too.
But I've also watched what those extra years can bring.
As my aunt became more fragile, my cousins had to start checking on her more often. There were decisions about where she should live and what kind of care she needed.
One cousin carried more of that responsibility for a while simply because she had retired before the others.
Now my aunt is in a care home close to one of them. She's happy there, which is something we're all grateful for.
But the worry doesn't disappear.
When she gets sick, they worry.
When something changes, they worry.
And my cousins are now over 60 themselves, with their own health, their own lives and their own retirement years to think about.
It's made me think differently about all those years I wished I'd had.
My mother's family had eight children.
Four died from cancer.
The other four suffered from Alzheimer's for years.
Their families had more time with them, but some of that time came with the heartbreak of watching someone they loved slowly disappear.
My mom was one of the four who died from cancer.
I'll never know what her later years might have looked like had she survived it.
And maybe that's what I've been getting wrong when I've wished for more time.
I didn't simply want my parents to live longer.
I wanted more good years with them.
I wanted my mom to be there when I was raising my children.
I wanted to be able to call her and have her still be my mom.
I wanted my dad to have enough years with my son that my son could actually remember him.
I wanted my children to have the grandparents I remember wishing they had.
I wanted more time with the people they were.
Of course I did.
But none of us gets to choose how many years we have with someone we love.
And we don't get to choose what those years will look like.
Some of us lose our parents far earlier than we're ready for.
Others are fortunate enough to have them for decades longer, but may eventually find themselves caring for the people who once cared for them.
I don't know that one is easier than the other.
I only know that, after all these years, I still wish I'd had more time with my parents.
But when I say that now, I understand what I'm really wishing for.
More good time.
More ordinary days.
More conversations.
More memories.
More years of having my mom and dad here, still themselves, while I was still their daughter.
Those are the years I wish we'd had.
A thought to take with you
Sometimes more time is what we want most. But what we're really wishing for may be more good time with the people we love.
If you've lost a parent, what do you find yourself wishing you'd had more time for?
And if you've had a parent with you into old age, what has that extra time meant for you?
Something come to mind?
If you'd like to share it, I'd love to hear what this story made you think about.