Sigh. My boy is in Year 2 this year.
Somehow, somewhere along the line, he grew up. He was only a baby yesterday, so how could he be a little man today? He is 7 now. Actually, he is 7 and three quarters. Almost 8, he tells me.
I hate that he is growing up. I hate that time is going by so fast. I hate that I am only going to have this beautiful little man for a short time, and life seems to be in such a hurry for him to fly straight through my life and then out of it. All in the blink of an eye.
Yes, he is not even 8, and yet he is middle-aged. I’m middle aged, and so is he. But I’ve lived so much already, whereas his life should be only just beginning. And yet it’s practically halfway through.
I know I shouldn’t wallow in self pity, but sometimes it’s hard not to. We try to do as much as we can with our kids, we want to make sure his life is full of as many memories as possible, but I wish I had more time to make more memories.
I want him with me forever. And I don’t think it’s fair that he won’t be. I struggle with the knowledge that one day I am going to have to let him go. Every single day, this thought brings me to tears. Never in front of him, always at night when I am going to sleep. Every night.
I love my little man. To the sun and back, plus to infinity and beyond.
Always and forever.