It happens gradually. We celebrate each little milestone, each little achievement with glee and pride, cheers and celebrations: but there is an undercurrent of sadness always hanging around, like a grey mist that seeps in slowly, softly, often without realizing. “This wont last” it whispers, it taunts.
He’s not a baby anymore. And though I still like to think of him that way, I know that I have just a short amount of time before he’s running off with his friends, playing rough and tumble games that I wont be a part of, and pushing me away, needing me less and less.
So I snuggle with him as often as I can. I cradle him like a newborn. He loves to push his warm body against me and just lean into me. He has a rocking chair in his room and I rock him and sing to him, snuggled into the crook of my arm, as part of his pre-bed routine.
He still wants to be picked up, so I happily oblige, and he is still so dependant on me for almost everything. I am torn between wanting him to grow into an independent big kid, and wanting him to stay just like this… at this crossroads between baby and boy where we can enjoy the best of both worlds for just a fleeting moment in time…
I am so going to miss this stage.