It’s going by so fast. Too fast for me.
I have to hold tight to every feeling while he is still Mummy’s Baby. Every movement. The tactile, visible and audible of his babyhood are slipping away from me.
It is past eleven at night and my son is sound asleep. His cheek is snuggled into my shoulder. His little back slowly goes up and down. I focus on the feel of his tiny shoulder blades under my hand. The extraordinary softness of the skin on his pudgy arms. The peachy fuzz of his hair on the back of his head. The comforting sound of his breathing. His sweet smell.
I want to cry. I don’t. I relax my head and let myself absorb how he feels.
From his deep sleep, he laughs. One of those chuckles that comes out as rapid exhalations. He wiggles, shifts, and I realize that he wants to go back to his crib, where he can stretch and roll. I get up out of the rocking chair and lower him into his crib.
I let go. Physically.
He immediately rolls onto his side. Then onto his stomach. He heaves a sigh and continues with whatever dream caused him to laugh.
Maybe there are percentages of letting go. His first step, his first day of school, his first bike ride, first romantic relationship...a little more each time.
Will I ever be ready for each step?
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