Pardon the sentimentality of this post. My baby is starting seventh grade tomorrow, and he still looks exactly the same as he did the day he came out of me. Still those adorable huge cheeks. Still those deep watchful eyes. Still the most perfect face I’ve ever seen.
I know the minutes were long when he was a baby, especially the minutes after 1 am when we were both awake instead of asleep and I was pretending not to resent all that time I was missing. I don’t really remember much of the bad times. (I don’t remember many of the good times from his first few years, to be quite honest. Sleep deprivation is real.) All the old ladies told me, “The minutes are long but the years are short,” and they weren’t kidding.
Twelve years, just like that. He’s a fully-formed human, with opinions and ideas and goals and dreams that have nothing to do with me. I bet the next twelve go by just as quickly.
Take pictures. Tell stories of what your kids do. Because you may not remember, and the next thing you know they’ll be hugging you at eye level and tying neckties and cracking really sophisticated jokes.