That moment when you're watching your child do something mundane (like rolling up a map) and you see that he's struggling just a little (because it's laminated and slippery) and you offer to help and he says 'no, thanks, I think I've got it' and you know he does but now he seems so much bigger than he did just eight seconds ago?
He's just growing so fast. His face is still soft and full, but the curves are beginning to melt into planes. His hands are larger and more capable. He's tall and I see his ankles peeking out between the hem of his jeans and his shoes because we can never keep him in pants long enough. His heart is thoughtful and his laughter is quick. He's still ever so impulsive but I see an awareness that wasn't there before.
How did we get here?
I have these moments regularly. When I look at my kids and realize that we're not in Munchkin Land anymore in the House of Freeman. My heart catches and I want to wrap my arms around those lanky kids and hold them tight before they get all grown up on me. I ache to cuddle longer.
It's all as it should be. But I needed to try to shove this moment into simple words and wrap it up with pictures that don't do it justice.
Because these people are my babies. Always my babies.
