Obviously I’ve known for quite a long time that Jericho is going to start kindergarten this fall. But today… Today it hit me for the first time that I only have three months left with him at home. Three. Months.
How is that even possible? Where did the past five years go?
Actually… I know where they went. They went to hours nursing on the couch. To sleepless nights and countless diaper changes. To rocking and holding and bouncing and singing. They went to books read and meals made. To pictures colored and games played. They went to talking and listening and doling out consequences and soothing hurts. They went to enduring temper tantrums and, perhaps, to throwing a few myself. They went to feeling clueless and lost and guilty and more full of joy than words could ever express. To wondering how in the hell I’m going to do this thing called motherhood.
And somehow, all those small, inconsequential moments, all those little things, add up to become something that is so much more than the sum of its parts. Those little things fill the days, which become the weeks and months and years. Then all of the sudden, you find yourself with an almost-kindergartener. Your helpless, tiny baby becomes this big, independent kid who doesn’t need you for large portions of his day. The sweet newborn who feels to you as though he’s a piece of your own heart existing outside your body…that piece of you grows up. And walks away.
Yes, I know that the aim of good parenting should be to raise competent, independent adults. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to watch as your child starts to need you less and less.
More than anything, I am inexplicably excited for this next phase of Jericho’s life. I am thrilled and humbled to watch him grow and develop and learn. He is an amazing little boy and I cannot wait to see who he becomes over the next thirteen years.
But first, just give me a few minutes while I sit here and cry into a strong cocktail, lamenting how quickly these five years have gone. How very fleeting life actually is…