I watched a little boy at the airport late at night.

Probably six or seven years old, crawling around on the floor with a teddy bear in his hand. And my first thought was: my son would never have gotten away with that. And if he had, those hands would have been sanitized the moment he stood up.

I still stand by the sanitizing.

His dad sat in the second chair from the end. The boy moved around the end chair, onto the floor, then back into the seat. At one point, he was kneeling, legs folded in a way that reminded me how flexible children are. His sister, probably a couple of years older, was there too.

Dad looked exhausted. His son still had plenty of energy.

I appreciated that father’s patience. It was late. I imagined he was ready for the day to be over. But his son still had some day left in him.

Watching them, I thought about my own little boy and little girl.

They are so far from that stage now.

But I remember being that tired parent. Wanting to sit down. Wanting everybody else to sit down too.

Why couldn’t they just sit in the chair?

Just relax for a minute. We’re all tired.

Well, apparently, we weren’t all tired.

They were children. Being a child meant having energy when mine was gone, finding something to do when I was perfectly content doing nothing.

As I kept watching, I noticed their mother was there too. Calm, steady, looking down at something in her lap. Their daughter was knitting.

The little boy’s mood had changed. Now he was crying, moving toward his father, putting his head into the chair. Dad shook his head, then leaned it back against his seat in what looked like exasperation.

I couldn’t hear their conversation. I didn’t know what had brought on the tears. But I recognized the scene.

A family trying to get through the last stretch of a long day. Everyone handling the wait a little differently.

My wife and I had lived our own versions of that moment.

At the time, those years seemed as though they would last forever. There was always another trip, another wait, another moment when we wished the children would settle down.

Now I find myself watching this family, yearning for a little of that time back.

I remember the frustrations. I also miss the ages they were when we had them. Our children beside us, still small enough that getting everybody through an airport was something we did together, under my wife’s and my watch.

And here was a reminder of what those years actually held:

• Movement
• Play
• Tears
• Patience
• Moments when you leaned your head back because you were tired too

I could appreciate that little boy’s energy and understand his father’s exhaustion. I could watch his mother sitting steadily beside them and his sister occupied with her knitting, and remember how much life happens while a family is simply waiting to go somewhere.

It was an ordinary moment, late at night in an airport.

We had lived so many moments like it. I just hadn’t known how soon I would miss them.