Life's like an hourglass glued to the table. No one can find the rewind button girl. From "Breathe" by Anna Nalick

I remember the way his head fit perfectly against my chest. I remember when only my embrace could make his tears stop. I remember when he wouldn't take a step forward unless I took the step with him. I remember when my lap was his favorite place to be. I remember when he looked at me with stars in his eyes. I remember when my entrance into a room made him the happiest boy in the world.


I remember it all. I have to. I have to remember because . . . he won't. Already, he doesn't.


He's eight now and he's forgotten. I know he's forgotten because lately, when I reach for his hand and squeeze tight, he doesn't grab hold and squeeze back as though he never wants to let go. That warm, soft, innocent hand, still so small inside my own, no longer squeezes back. It just goes limp, his fingers hanging loosely across my knuckles while his eyes dart around to see if any older kids are witnessing him holding his mother's hand.


He still loves me, I know. He'll always love me, I hope. Still, a shift has occurred. A noticable one. The relationship has transformed and it will never go back to what it once was. I suppose this change didn't happen all at once. I suppose I played a bigger role in the change than I'd like to admit. Every time I said, "Go play upstairs and mommy will be there in a few minutes," I was nudging him forward. Every time I persuaded him to try something without my help, I loosened our connection. Every time I kissed his forehead and put him down to tend to laundry, or dishes, or his little sister, I was moving him towards independence. Every time I dropped him off at preschool or at a play date or at his grandparents' house, I helped him realize he wouldn't always need me.


Looking back, I'd do it again. It's my job to encourage my children's autonomy. That's always been a responsibility of parents, along with a whole lot of other messy stuff. I want my son to be a confident child who believes in his abilities. I praise him when he tries something he's never done before and cheer for him when he accomplishes a new skill. It fills me with joy to witness him master something that was once out of his reach.


Most of the time, I'm glad my son doesn't demand my constant attention the way he did as a newborn, infant, and toddler. I'm grateful the physicality of the early years of parenthood has ended and each of my son's actions no longer requires a reaction from me. I enjoy having more time to myself, more time to complete tasks that don't involve nurturing another.


The shift in my relationship with my son isn't always in the forefront of my mind. Some days it seems nothing has changed - he wants me to get a knot out of his shoelace and help him with his homework and find a prized lego. He looks at me after making a great catch on the baseball field to see my response and asks me to lie in bed with him for just a few more minutes at night. He needs me just enough to reassure me I'm still an essential part of his life. Sometimes, however, the shift in our relationship takes my breath away. Sometimes, it's so evident, so blatant that it makes me want to turn back time, to press a rewind button that can never be found. Because sometimes, when we're walking together and I reach for my son's hand, I can tell he is wishing I wouldn't. He doesn't want to hold my hand. He doesn't need it anymore. And my heart clenches inside my chest as I realize I am doing my job. I am doing exactly what the Lord has called me to do.


I am helping my little boy grow up.