I’ve had it.
I am up to here with the time going by and the growing and the changing and the…
What I mean is, time won’t stop and my kids keep getting big. And so I keep hurting on the inside.
I got in bed tonight with a mind to whip up some paragraphs about this or that, but instead I laid down next to my almost 5-year old (wha??) son and studied him.
He was sprawled out on our bed in the Peter Pan costume he’s been wearing since he was a 3-year old, snoring on my favorite pillow, and I realized that the area below his neck and above his bottom is as big as his entire baby body used to be. Every once in awhile, my memory will suddenly whisk me back to that first year of being a mother – there, I’ll see my baby boy and his tiny ears and his funny hair and I can smell him and feel his down-covered head underneath my chin and I can remember what it felt like to have the entire world revolve around us. Heaven and earth seemed to pause for a bit and life was kind enough to go in slow motion that first year of our life together. The place that year occupies in my memory is like a year-long lullaby, evoking images of Springtime and sunshine and fresh air and baby lotion and sitting still and holding and loving and…
just being Gideon’s.
But like a treadmill that reaches the next level of speed, life has taken off and some days, it is not until bedtime that I really get the chance to drink in the sight of my only son and remember what it felt like to spend each day watching him grow.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this part of being his Mama…the part where he grows and I die a little.
Growing up is hard to do.