My Rory

Tomorrow is Rory's birthday.  He will be nine years old.  Here in the United States, a person can legally be called an adult at age 18, which means my little boy is halfway there.  I sometimes wonder if I've done enough.  Does he know half of what he needs to know before he "grows up"?  

I sometimes wonder if I've done too much.  Has he lost some of his childhood because of the way I've raised him so far?  And if so, will he ever get that piece of his life back?  Hopefully he won't decide to find it when he gets to be 40 or 50 years old!

As I was tucking him in tonight, I asked him to say his prayers "for the last time as an eight-year-old."  All of a sudden, his eyes teared and his face scrunched up.  When I asked what was wrong, he said he wasn't ready to lose his old life!  I had to remind him that his life would be basically the same as it was today.  He would really only be a day older than now, but we wanted to remember when he was born and celebrate that day!  I suggested that we could skip the cake and party and presents, and just do it next year instead, and then he could stay eight.  But my smart little guy pointed out that he would really be nine, anyway, so we might as well go on with the celebration (smile).  He then spent some time surmising what he would be when he grew up.

So here I am, grappling with the same conflicting feelings as my son.  I am excited to see glimpses of the man he will someday be, while still wanting to hold on to the baby who needed me so much nine years ago.  But children were meant to grow up, just as kites were meant to climb into the sky.  And mothers were meant to hold on just enough to let them soar, but not pull so hard that they dive back down to the ground.  And one day, we have to let go of the string...But Not Yet!