Laying warm clothes onto the bed, I notice your shirt. Black, the required color for work. You’re 20 now, and…how blessed I am to have these last months with you at home, still able to do your laundry if I manage to beat you to it.
Gone are the days of munchkin-sized onesies approximately as big as your current shoe size. Child of mine who’s walked into manhood right before my eyes; your brothers fast on your heels.
How I’d inhale an opportunity to sit with you again on the green-carpeted floor of our first home. Backing up into my lap, you’d plop down as if you knew I’d come just to be with you. And you were right.
And while we’re at it, one more chance to tiptoe back into the days when you were all of 13 years old, the finest “scientist” I ever did see—your curtain call to trick-or-treating. Laughter sweeter than all the candy corn on the street. Oh for the days.
I swear I only blinked.
And, then there’s you, my middle child, a high school senior now—and, by the way—what do you think you’re doing being almost 18?
Who gave you permission to stop being the 10 year old in my mind’s eye—the one who chased the sun all day, finding mystery in every treasure the dusty ground held? Barefooted boy with jeans rolled high, fast friends with the creek down the street, full of life and wonder, charm and mischief.
Babe of mine, who once-upon-a-time couldn’t cross Dreamland’s threshold without a blankie snuggled up against your perfect olive face; pacie never far.
And then you were four—sitting on my lap, captivated by the likes of Brown Bear, Brown Bear and The Topsy Turvies—story upon story we’d both eventually know by heart.
I’m sure I only blinked.
And you, my darling baby boy—what in the ever-lovin’ world?—how can it be that you’ve outgrown me already?
Yesterday you were eight months old, crying as I dropped you off—your first visit to the nursery. Your mother, right down the hall with the other Mothers-of-Preschoolers, might as well have been on the moon as far as you were concerned…too far to feel the warmth of safe, familiar arms.
You, with your white hair and chubby little legs…and your smile. Oh your smile. If ever there was a smile on a child, it was the smile born in your eyes.
How is it that you’re a teenager already? Sweet youngest of my heart—who, happily, waited 15 months to toddle your first steps—no rush you felt, after all, you had your people to carry you. Little one whose parents now understood that babies don’t keep.
And, I know I only blinked.
All too soon, beautiful sons of mine, I won’t wait up for you before drifting off to sleep, and your mailboxes won’t be visible from my front porch. Still…always…your mother I’ll be. Your boyhoods playing like a movie reel on the big-screen of my memory; your laughter my medicine; your dreams my hope.
To the world I say: Be ready. Curiosity and laughter, courage and heart, energy and plans—that’s what my little boys are made of—and they’re coming at you faster than I can hold them back.
(Thank you, friends, for indulging me with this post of Thanksgiving this November. Thankful beyond all measure for these boys ~ children for which I prayed.)
~ Linking up this week with these lovely ladies: Intentional Tuesdays , #RaRaLinkup , Testimony Tuesday , Titus 2sday , #TellHisStory , Coffee for Your Heart , Women With Intention Wednesdays , Thought Provoking Thursday , Dance with Jesus , Faith Filled Friday , Faith and Friends Friday , Faith and Fellowship and Weekend Whispers ~