June 4. A big day in my life, because it was the day I became mommy for the first time.
That was 16 years ago….16 years. That seems like forever ago but it's gone by so quickly, I sometimes need to take a quick peek at the birth certificate and then compare it to the calendar on my desk because surely, I think, it hasn't been THAT long.
Two years ago I wrote about how blessed and lucky I am to call my oldest kiddo my son. I wrote about how I thought I'd only have him for a few more years–four, to be exact–before I'd be moving him to a dorm room somewhere else to start his great big life apart from me. Two years ago I was just as proud, just as misty and just as happy to be his mom as I am today.
But today, two years later, I'm also thinking of the numbers. If all had gone as I thought it would two years ago, I'd still have two years left with him at home. Instead I have two months. Proud? Without a doubt. Happy for him? Ridiculously. Sad for me? Mostly. I know that this is part of the mother gig; prepping their roots then giving them wings when they're ready. But if I'm selfish (which I am), I think about how I'll lose my couch time companion and my early morning coffee conversation. I'll miss hearing his key in the lock after school and his silly way of pretending he doesn't like me when I know that he does. I'll miss hearing Erin giggle when he scoops her up to tickle and love on her. I'll miss him.
I know that he's not really leaving (yet). I know that he'll be home from time to time and over the summer. I know that I still have two months. But I'm hoping that with his mad math skills he can help me stretch these two months out exponentially longer (at least in theory). After all, he is a miracle; where's the shame in asking for one more?