If anyone ever tells you kids grow fast, time passes quickly, the days may be long but the years are short, enjoy it while it lasts, they won’t be little forever, you’ll miss their fingerprints on the wall and their cold hands waking you up early on Saturday mornings and the times they stole into your bedroom at night from bad dreams, one day he’ll be taller than you, thirteen actually happens, or don’t blink…
This is my first baby. Yesterday was the anniversary of my motherhood, which as you know is a national holiday on this blog. And he is now thirteen years old and one inch taller than me. And all those things under the picture are true.
But don’t think I didn’t count the moments. I took pictures of them. I wrote them down. I froze them in time as if I were already looking back at them. I was there when he walked, when he spoke, when he went to school. I tied the shoes, I tied the cape. I bought the toothpaste. I was there when he ironed a pair of shorts on vacation and the night he put this letter under his pillow:
This is my saber tooth: $20.
I was there the first day he had to turn his card in kindergarten, and even the teacher cried. I took him to his first parade when he was barely one week old. I took his picture two weeks ago when he was the parade. (Well, he was on a float anyway.) I’ve seen the concerts and the games and that time he played Baby Jesus. It was me on the bed that horrible, scary day during The Cancer Year when that giant hand you see in this picture was only five years old and it touched me while John prayed. I was there, People. I missed a few days during chemo, and I’ve been out of town a few times and I’ve been ridiculously imperfect, but for all intents and purposes, I haven’t blinked once.