It seems this move is making me sappy. Or it’s Alex’s upcoming birthday that’s doing it. Or I’m pregnant. Who knows, I can’t keep track of that kind of stuff.
(Ahem. Hello Boss Lady. Nothing to see here.)
I have always had a hard time with this growing up stuff. And I’m not just talking with my kid.
The first time I got my hair cut professionally, I sobbed. I looked at my parents and explained, “Now I’ll never be a children again.”
That is far from the only instance of my insane sentimentality. I do not like the passage of time. It’s not aging I fear…I can stand wrinkles. I may not like them but I can deal. It’s the idea that a moment has slipped by which I will never be able to grasp again. My attempts to live in the moment are mediocre at best – after all, there are bills to pay. Cat’s in the cradle and all that.
So, naturally, with Alex I worry.
Time is slipping away from us. He doesn’t want to sleep on my chest anymore. And he’s less than a year old. How am I going to stand it when he’s going away to college?
I worry that he will grow up and leave. That he won’t be my baby every day.
But then he looks at me, cocks an eyebrow and smirks.
And that impish mischievousness reminds me: this is my child. MY child.
He always will be.
Whether he likes it or not.