I am numb.
The shock of holding my 8 year old child in my arms is arresting.
He is not a little boy any longer, but on his way to being big. He is a child, still, with the trappings of a contemporary first world child around him. He has been plugged into his DS since yesterday afternoon thanks to the arrival of a game he has wanted for months. I have made him stay in bed, today. He’s got a cough and is sooky. “If you’re sick, you stay in bed.”
He acquiesced. He is sick.
I’ve hung out with him, pondering if the addition of another year actually makes a difference. It doesn’t, really. It just confirms this progression of time.
I am running out of times to pick him up and spin him, tickle him and blow raspberries on his tummy. I am running out of times that he will tell me he loves me in public. And times where he will hold my hand. Time seems… cruel.
Today, I hold him close and smell him. He smells. Kinda gross. But he’s him still.
I can see the shadow of the person he is growing into, his sense of humor is established. He is generous in his words and actions, most of the time. He still cries when things don’t go his way. He loves pokemon, lego, reading, maths, science and his pets.
I am trying to move on faster than him, so he doesn’t ever realise that I am sad, mournful almost, of letting my little boy go… and be grateful of the fact that he is here, in this moment, present. I am so, so, lucky.
Happy 8 years, dearest one.