scribblechic

Yesterday I noted a small change to my family’s morning routine in an understated post.  The subject was simple, but something lingered unsaid.  I felt compelled to preserve the moment while I looked for what lay hidden between the lines of the passage, a lump in my throat I could not name.  Slowly, the words came in my son’s voice.

I began to replay the morning’s exchange with my son, listening with my heart until I could acknowledge the word tugging at my emotions.  Baby.  In the shuffle of birthday celebrations, middle school registration forms, and laundry outgrown and set aside for donations I recognized a milestone.  My son’s footsteps have begun to fall further from my side.

No longer a little boy and not quite a young man, he is on the cusp of something new.  My breath held and my heart full of hope, I am mindful that I can no longer brush away injuries with Band-Aids or stand present for every challenge.  I am trusting he will still reach out, but waiting quietly in faith.  The word baby seemed to be reminding me of the time.

Tagged: Change