I can’t pick up my baby anymore. He’s too big or I’m too small. Either way, I can’t remember the very last time I was able to pick Gabe up and hold him. Sure, I can give him a piggy back ride, but it’s not the same as hug-holding him.
Every time we walk anywhere, Gabe slips his little hand into mine. It’s second nature, neither of us really think about it, it just happens. Walking to the car? Walking to the coffee shop? Walking across the street? He slips to hold my hand. It’s such a familiar feeling, his hand in mine. Slip.
Such a simple little action, but the other day it struck me that he is five. Which means Gabe won’t hold my hand some day soon. Whether soon is in two months or two years, he won’t slip his little hand into mine.
I guess I just forget that he’s growing up. That this is what happens. That growing up is the point of raising kids. Even the term “raising kids” implies you are raising them up. Raising them up to be self-sufficient enough to walk across streets alone, to brush their own teeth and wipe their own bottoms and read books alone.
It’s all lovely and wonderful and healthy and I want it. But sometimes it just strikes me that my job is to help him leave me and I get little glimpses of that.
(Of course, that’s not my only job as a mother. Hopefully I’m raising my boys to go out and make the world a better place by giving it two more people who are kind, loving, and friendly to everyone they encounter. We talk a lot about being the domino that starts a chain of being kind and loving.)
He’s only five and that’s still so little. He still spends most of his days with us, his family, and still wants to join in family hugs and dance parties and falls asleep in his car seat. He still hates sleeping alone or even being alone.
I think this might be the sweet spot of parenthood, ages 5-10 or so? The harder physical work (baby and toddlerhood) is behind us and the really hard emotional work is ahead of us (sleepless nights due to teenagers) and for now we get to have this great little buddy who enhances our lives and makes us want to be better.
My heart squeezes I love him so much.
It’s not that I sit around overwrought with feelings of loss and sadness and being the left behind Giving Tree or something. I so do not. I know having a big kid means many good things and that we still have many years as a family.
There’s just this little twinge of reminder that this stage is fleeting so I should savor it. This stage where my little boy thinks I’m the greatest and promises me he’ll always be my loving and kind little boy.
And isn’t that all of life, really? That the good parts are so good we want them to last, but we also know they are so good because they don’t last?
And lucky for me, he’s growing up to be a very caring, kind big brother.
The post Big Kid. appeared first on Our Little Apartment.
from Our Little Apartment http://www.ourlittleapartment.com/2015/11/big-kid-growing-up/
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