When I came downstairs this morning, I gave my son a hug and said, “This is this last morning I’ll get to give a child of mine a hug.” Tomorrow he turns 18, so my “children” will both be adults.
How the heck did that happen?
The old saying, “The days go by like years, and the years go by like days” feels true to me today. Looking back, I remember some re-e-e-a-a-l-l-y lo-o-o-o-n-g days of fevers or croup or endless building of Lego houses. Now, all those days stacked up one on top of another feel like a snap of the fingers. My youngest child was 20 inches long at birth, and he fit in the crook of my arm. Now he is 6′ 4″ and I fit under his arm.
On his Adult Eve, I celebrate the man that he is, even though I hold dear the baby, the toddler, the child, the teen he was.
He was the baby who would never accept a soother or a blanket for comfort; he wanted his mother or father. He was the toddler who climbed into our bed . . . every . . . single . . . night . . . for seven years. He was the child who skipped stones, who always drew an illustrated Christmas List, and who loved to play with BeyBlades and mini-hockey sticks.
He was the teen athlete who played every sport going, but especially baseball.
On his Adult Eve, I know he feels himself all grown up and very independent. But I know better. In terms of numbers, he might be an adult, but he’ll always be a baby to me.