From the first time your eyes opened and I smelled your newborn skin, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted to sleep; I wanted my nipples to stop cracking and bleeding; I wanted to come out of the identity crisis I was having; but son, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted you to stay right there in the crook of my arm, nestled into my chest, sleeping skin to skin, with all the peace in the world covering us up in a blanket.
When you were a toddler throwing tantrums in your time out chair, playing in the toilet, and screaming in your carseat, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted peace and quiet; I wanted to run away for just an hour or two to an all-inclusive resort in Maui; and I wondered every second what the heck I was doing. But son, gosh, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted you to stay right there with your chubby hand in mine, walking into the coffee shop where I got my coffee and you got your “toffee”.
When you were preschool age singing songs in the back seat, pushing every boundary, and asking for snacks while you were still eating a snack, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted to stop sweeping crumbs and picking up scrambled eggs from the carpet; I wanted the toys just to stay in the room; I wanted a massage with whatever essential oil gives you back your sanity; but gosh, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted you to stay there with your big words and your chubby cheeks and your endless stream of questions we would never know the answers to.
When you were school age arguing with every thing we said, bossing around your siblings, and breaking your arm on the trampoline, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted to go on a run just as soon as your dad walked in the door; I wanted the house to stay clean for at least one hour; I wanted the bickering to stop forever; but son, I didn’t want you to grow up.
I wanted to just stop time right there and stay in it forever with your big blue eyes, your sense of wonder, and your thousands of football cards stacked underneath your bed.
Now here we are with your stinky football jersey laying on your bedroom floor, with deodorant and homework, and with a big sense of humor and a grin that makes me melt. Here we are, with back-talking and sarcasm and eye rolls for days.
I know it’s not fair to keep you here; I know you can’t stay in this age forever but gosh, I don’t ever want you to grow up.
My hands feel like they’re grasping at air: where did the time go? How did you get so tall? I watch you now pouring a bowl of cereal and arguing with your sister about something silly, I know this moment just lasts one second long.
Tomorrow you’ll be older. Tomorrow time will move like water through a broken glass.
As I look at your jaw line thats getting more defined and your face that’s growing older by the day, I’m so so proud. I’m so excited for the man you’re becoming, but gosh I’ll never be ready for you to grow up.
Picture by Elizabeth Lucht Photography.