Wednesday, October 01, 2008
My firstborn, my son, the light of my life is 4 years old. The small bundle I first saw in the morning hours of October 1, 2004. The little boy who came out crying but paused for just a second when I held him to my chest. Our miracle, born 5 weeks early but rarin' to go!
This morning Steve and I sang happy birthday to him when he was 4 years (and 10 minutes) old. He opened one eye and said "I'm sleepy".... smiled at us...then said "Mommy, hold me!" I picked up my 40 pound, 43 inch long baby and marveled at him. His wit, his intelligence, his maturity...but still, just a small bit of the baby he once was.
He was done with my arms all too soon. Ready to jump headfirst into his fourth year. Anxious to open his first present, a Bumblebee Transformer. Anxious to make it work. Anxious to move, move, move!
I want him to grow, to be strong and independent. To form his own opinions, make his own decisions. Eventually fly away from me and the shelter of my arms.
I want that.