Every morning, my son appears in whatever room I happen to be in at the moment, his arms full of his stuffed bear blankets, his hair a riot of cowlicks, a shy smile on his face.
Today he carried his new red fleece slippers in his arms too. And asked me, Mommy can you help me?
So I helped him put them on. And when he stood up and ran away to get some toy of his, his bare ankles peeped out from the bottom of his pants.
He’s growing up so quickly.
I’m finding it hard to wrap my brain around the fact that he’s going to be four in March. FOUR.
When did that HAPPEN?
I mean. For more than three years we were stuck in the Waiting Place, hoping to get pregnant. That time felt like an eternity to me; decades, eons.
But from the moment he was born, time accelerated, rushing through us, nearly overwhelming me with milestones and things to remember and change and movement.
It took me a long time to adjust to being his mom, to really embracing the fact that we got lucky enough to be parents. I was scared for so long that I didn’t deserve someone like him.
So. It’s looking more and more like he will be our only child. And if I were to be honest, I’m mostly okay with that. I like babies, but I LOVE little kids. The imagination. The vocabulary. The independent play, the trying new things, the teaching about words and games and the world around us.
But sometimes it’s hard, too, knowing that we only had one chance at babyhood.
This morning? The glimpse of his bare ankles in the gap between his pajamas and slippers struck me.
He’s a little boy.
And there are some days where I see the man he’s going to become.
So bitter and so sweet, all at the same time.