I remember wrapping him in swaddling clothes and lying him in a crib. The midnight feedings, his first steps, our rocking chair.
I remember the joy and chaos of life with an infant. The schedule changes, his tiny smile, our time together when the rest of the house was empty. And silent.
I remember him, forever, as my baby.
But tonight I’m starting to see that the baby has officially hit the half-way mark to 8, noted by his infatuation with dirt bikes, snowboards, and basically, any kind of sport that gives me ulcer-inducing nightmares of him cracking all his teeth out of his head and possibly suffering a minor concussion.
He has opinions about what he wears, whether the temperature deems wearing an actual jacket [he counts fleece-lined sweatshirts as being good enough], and now, he cares about his hair.
His dad and I don’t mind this new burst of independence, although his cowlicks and course mop make the carefree J.Crew-kid hairstyle an impossibility. Instead, we bargained: He may grow out the top of his hair, but the sides have to stay trimmed to avoid any confusion between his ‘do and a bonafide helmet.
The compromise is working. It’s also making his look so old. And quite tough. Like a dirt bike rider or a snowboarder.
I’m guessing that’s what he wanted.
Funny, though, how a mother’s heart most often repaints her landscape with a retrospective lens. Because to me, he’ll always be my sweet little boy.