Yesterday, my two sons had milestones…..and so did I. They enjoyed themselves very much. Me? Not so much.
My oldest son, Z, had his Parent Picnic and Awards Day at school. He made Honor Roll for the year (Yay, Z!!!!!) and earned over 70 points in his Accelerated Reader Program — one of the highest in his class. I am so very proud of him. And though he clearly got his brains from me, I was still a little sad. My boy is growing up. Fast. He is only 8, yet he already reaches my shoulder. Granted, the basketball teams in school were never beating down my door (or even knocking, for that matter), but still. He shouldn’t really be that tall…..should he?
Watching Z wasn’t so difficult though. He quit giving me hugs and kisses in public over 5 years ago. He has grown independent and really is turning into a little man. He loves to build things and show them off to me — and I am always suitably impressed — but he never wants me to help anymore. He doesn’t want me to read bedtime stories to him. I’m still a part of his world, just not an active part. And I haven’t really been for a while, so though I brushed back a couple tears during the slide show at the end of awards, I really came through it okay.
Last night was a completely different situation. M graduated from Pre-Kindergarten school. He dressed up in big boy clothes — pull-over shirt and khakis — and had on his cap and gown. All of a sudden, he wasn’t my baby anymore. Who is this little boy? Wait! Where is my baby?!?!? NOOOOOooooooooooo, this CAN’T be him! He’s 5. He still crawls in my lap to give me hugs and kisses — and he still fits! He loves on me anytime and anywhere, and sometimes it’s even his idea. He still wants bedtime stories (though I’m beginning to suspect it’s to delay bedtime more than wanting time with me) and occasionally even lets me rock him. I bawled like the baby M is still supposed to be. He walked across that stage, got his diploma and his “Imagination Award” (very apt, I promise you!) like he owned the place. I cried more.
Z is my oldest, and though it was hard, it was not THIS hard. I think. The distraction of his brother who would have been 2 at the time kept me from dwelling on just how fast all of this happened. M, though, is the baby. No more distractions. No more of these events will be happening. He is my last one. I’m trying to write all of this down so that I won’t forget anything. I write it down to help myself adjust to how fast my boys are growing up.
One little man. One little boy. Neither of them so “little” anymore. What’s a mom to do?
Then M came running up to me, gave me a hug, and went running off to race his brother up and down the halls (despite my admonishments not to run inside), and suddenly he was my baby again. I got a reprieve. But this fall, when they both climb on that big yellow school bus — one to 3rd grade and one to Kindergarten — I make no promises. Yes, I do. I promise I will cry all the way to work. Or maybe I’ll follow the bus all the way to school . . . . . . .even if it is the opposite direction from work.