My Yo-Yos

My baby boy is 10 and one half. He reminds me daily that he is almost 11, which is close enough in his opinion, to being an adult and allowed to legally do whatever the hell he wants.

I tell him he's allowed to drive when he's 19.

I tell him he's allowed to drink a beer, ONE beer, when he's 21.

I tell him he's allowed to get a tattoo when he's 25.

I tell him he's allowed to have a girlfriend over my dead body.

I have noticed, especially lately, how quickly he is growing up. I have yet to figure out the age old, mother-love question of how to prevent this from happening. I blink and he is 4 or 5 years old, barely reaches my waist, but cheerful and cuddly and still believes his mummy can do anything. I blink again, and here he is today, almost at my shoulder-height, sulky when asked to make his bed, sarcastic, most times still cuddly.

I choose to not wonder too long about his future because I am desperately trying to hold onto now. In trying to be a good parent, sometimes I have to get in his face - "No. You will NOT speak disrespectfully to me. I am YOUR MOTHER." He pushes buttons and tests limits, but nothing that isn't expected and nothing too far out there that I can't reach him and yank him back to me.

My kids are my yo-yo. I'm holding on to the circled start of it, while they roll themselves out along life, crazy bumps and jumps and twists and all, but I reel it back in, check on any knots that have been created, and then step back and watch them roll out again.

One day, the yo-yo will break free and roll completely on its own and my heart will shatter.

Until that day, I'm hanging on, as tight as I can.