I'm not ready for this. Not yet.
I swear it was just yesterday that
he was small, inhabiting a world of stuffies, dinosaurs and superheroes. I
could heal boo-boos and banish scary dreams with a snuggle and the “milkies.”
It was so easy to set right the things that hurt and scared him. And the skills
he was learning every day – from memorizing the alphabet, to sharing, to
dressing himself, to riding a tricycle – were all safely within my wheelhouse.
I was confident in my ability to guide him on every one.
Now he’ll encounter tasks,
situations, and peer interactions that I won’t always be able to help with or
even understand. I know it’s my job to let him move into those things on his
own, finding independence, while I stay nearby, watching for signs of trouble
and providing a safe harbor for when the storms are too much. And I’ll do that,
gladly. I’ll stand steadfast as a lighthouse and shine so bright, and so far, that
he will always know where home is, where safety and love are found no matter
what.
I know this is the way it’s supposed to be. I know I can
already be proud of the teen and man he will become, and of the job I’m doing.
I know it’s all part of growing up.
But I also know this: while I’m
standing here shining brightly, full of pride and excitement for him, my heart
will break a little more each time he moves further away from me. And I will
miss that little boy – the stuffy-loving superhero – the rest of my days.
