I have an 8 year old. What’s that you say? 8? How can that be? Was it not just yesterday I was holding your chubby little hand crossing the street? I certainly don’t feel any older, maybe more tired – but not older. The middle child, my only boy, my “easy” baby and hardest special needs child. At 8 old you are becoming less and less my little boy. I’m going to admit that I hate that. You beg to be dropped off at basketball practice while I park the car, insisting you can walk in by yourself now. Every morning you ask if you can please ride your bike to the park alone that night to play with your “friends” from the neighborhood. I stand on the corner and squint my eyes until I see you’ve crossed over to the park. Some days you turn around to see if I’m watching, maybe a small little wave. Those are the best days. Even though I wish I still could be there holding your hand as you cross the street; I adore seeing the look of confidence on your face. You are independent and proud. You have come so far, you deserve to be proud. You understand how the world works, how is this possible?!? You may be growing up and gaining more independence– but I long for those days when you needed me by your side. And while you still need me to tuck you in each night and that glimpse of childhood still exists, even that is disappearing with you now insisting to help read the bedtime story. Please don’t grow up too soon.
Little Butterfly Wings: Sweet Novmember Elements, Papers and Journal Cards
Heather Joyce: The Reed
