In the flux of days and months, weeks and years, something mysterious occurred. My baby grew.
My toddler became a Kindergartner, who developed into a sweet little boy, who somehow established himself into a young gentleman of 12 3/4.
Within this mysterious crux of translucent time, I’ve scrambled to keep afloat, attending to needs and wants and keeping up with status quo.
Trying my very hardest to adjust, even when questions about, “boobs,” are posed, inciting impromptu, slightly flustered conversation. Even before the seemingly, chronologically correct Santa Clause chat. Appeared a little out of order to me? Regardless, I adjusted. I calmed the storm. Told him about the female anatomy, which segued into an even more unarmed, awkward conversation about where babies come from.
So. In short, my sweetheart of a son knew the dance of the birds and bees, while still completely convinced of Santa Claus’ flight down our chimney… equipped with eight, tiny flying reindeer in tow.
Where does the fine line of what’s age appropriate lie?… with what standards state, or with what’s staring at me square in the face?
… perhaps a 12 ¾ year old boy…fighting back tears because something was stirring within that hit him at the pre-adolescent core today. And maybe I have to waver in and out, between that thin line of toddler, let me just hold you time, and young man, let me describe the deeper meaning of all this, son of mine.
As I held him tonight, I consciously wiped away a tear, almost shedding several myself. The emotion arose not only because I empathetically embraced my son’s sorrows, but with the conscious realization that these blessed tears are numbered. How many will I have the privilege to wipe from the cascading rims of his sweet eyes?
They will always be sweet to me, his eyes. No matter how many linear lines of numbered years he may cross. My love grows.