Beginnings

I may have mentioned some time ago that my son would soon be starting sixth grade.

Today is that day.

Putting him to bed last night, the tears started building (mine, not his) as it occurred to me what a huge moment this is. It's GRADE 6. 6. Six. Doesn't matter which way I write it, I'm still not prepared for the years to come. It's only a matter of months, really, before he will no longer allow me to kiss him on his still smooth cheek or hug him tightly in front of anyone other than family, and even that, I'm sure will be limited to those times that I beg and plead and use guilt (or candy) as a motivating factor in order to be on the receiving end of that hug.

Soon to be gone are the days of holding him giggling, in my lap, as I tuck his leggy legs in half and fold his scrawny arms inward and rock him back and forth and pretend he's still my little baby boy; all the while surreptiously sniffing the back of his neck for the smell that is his (and only his) and all little-boy - that outdoorsy-windy-sunshiney--good-smell.

This is how it's supposed to be as our kids grow up. We love them and hold them close for as long as we can. When they start to test their independence and move away from us, there is, hopefully, an unwritten understanding that they know we are only an arm's length away from them.

I get it. I don't like it one little bit. But I get it.