I walked out of the hospital at my pre-pregnancy weight. That's how big that kid was.
And his heart was just as big. He loves, fiercely. He plays, fiercely. He rages fiercely. He turns in circles in the center of the room, telling a story about his day, picking up this thing from here and setting it there, picking up that thing from there and setting it who knows where. He gives me a full-on hug, still my snuggle bear, and he wanders upstairs to watch grown men squeal on YouTube, while I rescue the remote from the bathroom and a dog toy from the kitchen counter and his phone from the back of the couch.
In 6 years, he will be gone, suddenly an adult.
I am not ready.
Only this year, have I felt the ticking of the clock, as my kids grow into their futures. They have both started to settle -- just a bit-- into their own skin. Puberty is a fickle bitch and it has not been -- is not -- will not be easy on these two. They both sense and see the world for what it is. They call out injustice. They pick up on what is not said. They see hypocrisy and greed and they see beauty. They are both already taller than me. And they both reject societal standards of beauty and femininity and masculinity and sexuality. They are who they are and they dare you to ask them to be anyone or anything different. They refuse to cave to your pressures.
But n 3 years, she will be gone. In 6 years, he will be gone. I won't have to feed them fast food in the car as we drive to practice; I won't have to stock the pantry with Cheez-Its because at least it's something they might eat. In 6 years I won't have to check the fridge for the remote.
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| Photo by Delia Giandeini on Unsplash |
Time is flying off the shelves like toilet paper.
Currently, my house is a disaster, my me-time consists of bourbon and Hallmark movies and laundry, and there is a single Rick and Morty sock on the piano.
In 6 years, this chaos will be gone.
I'm not sure I will ever be ready.