There are a million times a day where I look at him. And I just really want time to stop. I don’t want to get older. And I don’t want him to either. I never want this moment to change. I want him to be just like this. And never. ever. get bigger.
I look at him and think about how I just want to kiss the very top of his puffy cheeks. Right beneath his eyes. And memorize how his wide grin looks from the top view. And scoop him up, onto my lap. And hold his soft, sweet hands. And accept any butterfly kisses that his lashes are willing to share.
I want to write down absolutely every little thing he says while capturing his adorable current inflection and facial expressions. And I want to be there to hear, “I wub you, mommy” every single time he feels like saying it. Because I fear the day he stops.
Often, these days, with this one, I think, we’re in a good spot. I just want him to stay, right where he is.
And then. Well. And then, he shouts, Don’t forget! I’M 3.
When I have to wake him from nap. In order to retrieve his brother. Which causes a complete and utter failure to communicate, be endearing or function like a normal human being. Or he has a {thankfully, now rare} 40 minute tantrum leading up to bedtime. Packed with kicking, screaming, crying, attempts to flee, and other trickery. And in those irrational, unnerving periods of time, the words pouring out of his mouth are no longer adorable and make minimal sense… even to the parents who’ve learned his speech.
And in those moments, gone are the kisses on the cheekbones. The eyelash butterflies. The many endearing qualities that he’s grown into. And instead, I think, You know… I feel like I remember 4 being a really good age the last time we did this. Yes. 4 was good, too.
So, I guess, maybe change isn’t so bad after all.
And maybe getting bigger, is sometimes, better.
Just not too big.
Of course.
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