Haven’t you always been this way?
Your hand this size.
Your laugh filling my own throat with love and relief.
Your feelings so big, your shoes so tiny, in a messy heap by the back door.
But inevitably, without us having any say in the matter, the sun dips below the horizon each evening.
The sky catches fire for a few fading, miraculous minutes.
It quiets, it grows dark, the moon shines, and before we’ve all had our fill of sleep, a new morning rises.
It greets us with new challenges.
New troubles, new worries.
New adventures, too.
New life to live, new growth sprouting up all around you.
Will you still twirl your hair to soothe yourself at bedtime tonight?
Will you still reach for me to fall asleep?
Will you still search for dinosaurs around the corner, my darling girl?
Your curls bouncing as you run down our hill, wild and barefoot.
Your confidence unwavering, unbroken, whole and inspiring.
Will you still clutch your race car in your car seat, protecting your prized possession, my beautiful boy?
Stopping to admire a ladybug on our walk, and naming her as she wanders across your tiny arm.
Full of love, full of wonder.
When will I wake to realize you’ve grown?
The jacket doesn’t fit, the magic dust in my pocket doesn’t heal the boo-boo, the hug doesn’t solve the problem?
I hope it’s a long time away, but time has a funny tendency to keep rolling onward without consulting us.
It doesn’t ask if we are ready for what’s to come.
For now, I will breathe this version of you in.
I will wait to meet the next chapter of you, with open arms, with some hazy nostalgia for the four- and two-year-old yous. For the thirty-four-year-old me.
Still figuring it out, still stumbling, still making a mess of things. Still learning, making mistakes and memories.
I will make room for us to grow together, and I will always bring love.