I didn’t want you to grow up

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.