Sometimes, I can see my little boy running toward me and I almost lose my breath. I’m completely bewildered at how fast he has grown. Just yesterday, I could swaddle his tiny body in a blanket, cradle him in my arms, and shower his chubby cheeks with kisses. I loved the sweet smell of milk on his breath, the way his whole hand would curl around one of my fingers, and I fell in love a thousand times a day with each new face he made. I was in awe of the life my husband and I had created so much so that I couldn’t bare to put him down.
I could not even begin to count the times someone would say to me, “Put that baby down before you spoil him. You’ll never be able to get anything done.”
Maybe they were right, because I did not get much of anything done, but I do not regret, for one single second, all the times I held him in my arms. There are days were I would clean my house from top to bottom with a toothbrush and a bar of soap, do five thousand loads of laundry, and press a million button up shirts, to have my son three months old again, just for a day.
I blinked, and now he is two. His legs are too long and scrawny for his body and splattered with bruises. When he runs, he always falls. When he talks, you know he’s from the south. His accent is so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. His smile stretches from one ear to the other and would melt any heart of stone, and I still want to hold him. He just doesn’t stay in one place long enough for me to catch him.
I know I’ll blink again, and he’ll start kindergarten. I’ll blink again, and he will be a teenager behind the wheel of a car. I’ll blink again, and he’ll be in a cap and gown accepting his high school diploma. I know in my heart of hearts, I can feel it in my soul, that regardless of how old he gets or how many people tell me to let him go, my arms will always long to hold him. I am his mother and he will always be my baby!