“Hey mom…. I have a crush on a girl.”
That was his random statement to me recently.
He dresses himself most days. He likes things like camo pants and hats and things that make him feel “cool.” The Olaf shirt I bought him, that he excitedly wore to Disney just 9 months ago has been relegated to the pj stack.
After school, it’s a battle to get him to eat a snack before he runs out the door to play with friends. “Please, just eat something. I don’t want you cleaning out the neighbors’ pantries,” I chide like a good mom.
He is that kid now, the one who runs, bikes, scoots down the street. Usually in a pack. We have to put our trust in him that he’ll be at the place he says he’s going. That he’ll come back when it gets dark… or when we finally text the parent of the child he’s busy playing with.
One year is an incredibly short and long amount of time.
One year ago was yesterday and it was another lifetime with a completely different child.
I find myself becoming one of those “cherish every moment” moms lately. And I want to slap myself sometimes. Maybe I hug him too much for too long. But he still asks me to crawl up in his bed with him and snuggle with him.
He still gives us kisses on the lips when we walk him to school and say goodbye. Scott told me the other day he said to him, “Why don’t you just kiss my cheek, okay?”
“What? No! Don’t tell him that!” I scolded.
“Jill, he’s going to get made fun of,” he said defensively.
“So what! Then he’ll stop. You’re going to give him a complex. Don’t make him stop all this before he wants to. Before it’s his choice.”
Maybe I’m getting a little frantic about all the finite small moments left that he chooses to share with us.
I nurse Lowell to sleep, and I struggle to remember what it was like when Kendall was this small. And soft. And chubby.
Time is an asshole.