We celebrated my son's first birthday last weekend, and again on Christmas Eve (his actual birthday). As I rocked him to sleep on the night he turned one, as I did on my daughter's first birthday, I cried.
I distinctly remember the feelings I had, the hospital room we were in on Christmas last year, and the first time I held his slimy little body in my arms. As his birthday approached, I found myself dreaming of labor and delivery.
It is so fun to watch my children grow and learn, but I am melancholy for the newborn days of snuggling and middle-of-the-night feedings. As my son becomes more independent, he's less likely to cuddle with me as he falls asleep, and more likely to fight to get into his crib, roll over and pass out. As his world expands, I take up less room in it.
These are good things. As his mother, I want him to grow up to be a strong, independent human being. It is my job to see that it happens. However, I really wish I had a way to slow the moments down.
I know those were not the last tears I'll shed for him, or for the passage of time.
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