I walked by the open bedroom door and stopped to turn off the light. As my hand reached for the switch, I glanced at the person lying on the bed and thought: That is a young man. He’s no longer my little boy, but a young man.
Wait, stop. Just for a minute. Stop. I need a second to catch up. I need a moment to say goodbye.
I know that I will let go of the kid who was caught between two worlds—of boy and of teen—because I’ve done it all along. From a tiny baby whose whole body fit neatly in one hand, to a grinning toddler who went everywhere in a Captain Feathersword costume carrying either a Thomas the Tank Engine or Lightning McQueen car, to a sturdy school-age boy who ran everywhere, explored everywhere, and gave me constant heart attacks—I loved each and every stage of his childhood and motherhood, and while I looked forward to the next one, I mourned the loss of the one we left behind.
Just a while ago, I begged for just one more summer of what I thought was the perfect age for him. Oh, how I needed just a little more time of my little guy being little. I got my wish—one more summer of little boy madness. Then inevitably, he went on to the next stage. He grew. And I grew with him. I had no choice. It was grow or be left behind.