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I'll Carry You Always...

The #fivester had a nightmare early this morning. I heard his door fly open and the rush of scared little feet heading toward our room. I was up and moving before I could think. We met in the hallway, where he catapulted into my arms and clung to me, hard; like a baby koala, protected by his mama's embrace. It was like a movie scene, the fury of excitement and perfect timing. "You're safe baby, I have you."


He gripped hard and laid his head on my shoulder as we walked back to his room. I climbed in bed with him and held him for a few minutes before he was fast asleep once again. No more words spoken, no tears, just safety.


As I climbed back in bed, I wondered, "will this be the last time?" I read something recently about not realizing when your last experiences are with your kids until they are over; your last time hearing them call you "Mommy," the last time they hold your hand, the last time you pick them up and carry them. When you have littles, these thoughts are enough to make your heart ache.


He'll be six next month. He's a big kid, who walks and talks and eats and dresses himself. He doesn't "need" me so much any more, but he is still clinging to requests that are well within his capabilities because, I think, he feels it, too. The baby is slipping away. As he gains independence, the physical bond we once shared disappears, and I find myself wondering when the last time I'll hold him in my arms and carry him back to bed will be? How long before he won't hold my hand to cross the street, or kiss me a dozen times at my request and giggle the more I ask?


I want nothing more than for these boys of ours to grow and learn and become amazing, independent humans. Just, a little slower, please. Mama is not ready for this just yet. I need more snuggles and kisses and belly raspberries and hand holding. I need more time with them while they are little and I am young.

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