As I sit here, typing away on my laptop while the tv is flickering in the background, my baby boy is sleeping soundly in his bed. I kissed him goodnight as a 5-year-old and tomorrow I’ll be waking up a 6-year-old. Let that seep in – my youngest child, my baby, the boy who in the middle of the night still regularly ends up in my bed, will be turning 6 in just a few short hours.
The days are long but the years are short, I know; still, they are truly short! I find it hard to explain how bittersweet it is seeing your child grow. There are moments when your heart is bursting out of pride and joy while watching this child that was once small enough to fit inside of you, being now able to perform all these prodigious, mind-blowing feats like communicating in five languages, dribbling a football better than you ever will, coding and having genuinely witty come-backs to your reprimands. It’s pride at how amazingly brilliant this boy is, sure, but also at how well you are doing; among many fails and struggles as a parent, you must have done SOMETHING right! The very next moment, however, it hits you like a ton of bricks that your child is growing up and before you blink he’ll be a teenager and off to university and your heart shatters into a million tiny pieces. At least mine does. So while he is starting to read his goodnight stories all by himself, I still carry wet wipes and fruit pouches in my handbag (both of which come handy many times) as a statement to the duality that I’ve been ambushed into.
I do wish he would have stayed a baby for just tiny a bit longer, with the scent only a newborn can emanate but with growing up comes maturing, easier days and a new season in life. Different, but just as exciting and wonderful. I truly am convinced of that, even though I must admit there are tears rolling down my cheeks, as I sit here.
