It kills you to see them grow up.
But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn’t.
Here is the last time I will see baby girl as a kindergarten student; she will return to me as a first grader.
Knowing my oldest is in middle school next year– or driving in three years– doesn’t make me feel nearly as old as knowing my youngest is a big girl now.
And I know that the years will only go more quickly now, that they will make friends, join teams, have homework and jobs to do, and they will need me less and less. I’ve always raised them with this in mind– that you parent so that you will no longer be needed– but still. I find myself all teary in spite of myself.
You want them to grow up. Of course you do. You want them to grow, succeed, build families of their own.
But oh, you want to keep them small and snuggly and with music in their laughter.
I knew being a parent would be hard. I never suspected it would reduce my icy self to blubbering like an idiot walking home after putting my child on a schoolbus. Please tell me I’m not the only one.