Yesterday, my son, who will soon turn 11, came to me and told me he is afraid. This is a big step for this boy who likes to put on a tough front and occasionally growl. (Yes, we are working on that.)
“Mom, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of one day when you won’t be here and Dad won’t be here and it will just be me and my brothers.”
I assured him I’m not going anywhere, that I love him, that I would never leave him. And with each promise I made to him, I silently hoped that my words would come true.
He is growing up so fast. They all are. I wish I could stop time. I wish I could lean out of this boat—just a little bit—and let my hand drag in the water, slowing things down. Just for a year. Or ten.
My son is losing his baby fat. Soon his voice will deepen and he won’t want to sit on my lap all the time. He’ll stop coming into my room every morning and wrapping himself around me, his legs intertwined in mine. He’ll stop asking me to soothe his fears and kiss his boo boos. He’ll stop telling me all the details of his day and probably won’t let me kiss him as excessively as I do. And I really do. I can’t help myself.
But right now I’ll take it all. Because he lets me. And I am lucky.
“Mom, promise me you’ll get past triple digits age. Wait. That’s a lot to ask. Just promise me you’ll get to triple digits.”