Lately, I find myself embracing my firstborn more than usual. Perhaps it’s the quiet hope, or maybe the gentle delusion that I can somehow hold back time by holding him closer.
Each time I look at his face, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the man he is becoming. His voice has already begun to change, carrying the soft echoes of adulthood. And though college is still years away, the thought of him leaving fills me with a kind of ache I didn’t expect so soon.
I know—it’s early. But can you blame me? It feels like he grows an inch every time I blink.
If I’m being honest, what I fear most isn’t just the growing up. It’s the letting go. I fear the day he no longer needs me. The day he pulls away when I reach to hug him in front of his friends. The day he cringes at a kiss on the cheek or sighs at yet another “I love you” whispered across the dinner table.
Right now, he’s still my sweet, tender-hearted boy, who meets me at the door with hugs after errands. He wraps his arms around me while I’m at the sink, or standing idly in the living room. I cherish those moments more than I ever knew I could. And I’m quietly terrified they’ll vanish the moment he turns thirteen.
But I know I can’t hold him back. As much as my arms ache to keep him close, I must help him grow, not anchor him. One day, I’ll learn to loosen my grip. One day, I’ll trust the wings we’ve grown together.
For now, I choose to sit with this feeling. I honor it. I name it. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the first step toward letting go—not of him, but of my fear.
For his sake.
I love you, my baby boy.
P.S.
It’s not favoritism, I promise. It’s just that my youngest hasn’t given off those teenage signals yet, so I’m not quite there with the worry. Besides, I figure—one wave of parental anxiety at a time, right?
