As I sat in church, observing a family in front of me—a mother, a father, and their adult daughter—I was struck by a tender moment. The mother wrapped her arm around her daughter, who leaned her head against her mom’s shoulder. Meanwhile, I glanced down at my 5-year-old son, resting his head in my lap. It dawned on me that no matter how old they grow, our children will always be our little ones. Through the lens of a parent, we can still see the babies they once were.
Take my 11-year-old son, for instance. His appearance has transformed dramatically; his teeth are now adult-like, his hair has become thicker and darker, and he stands just beneath my chin. Yet, when I focus on him, I can still spot that tiny scar on his cheek—a remnant from his baby days that I often pondered while nursing him. I remember his gap-toothed grin when he was 6, proudly showcasing one of his Lego masterpieces. Even in his long fingers, I can still see the pudgy little hands that once scooted cars across the floor. He remains my baby because I can still see the baby in him.
Looking at my daughters with their flowing hair, I can almost envision the messy curls damp from a post-nap sweat. Their little lisps from when they sang “You Are My Sunshine” at the age of 2 still echo in my mind. Those sweet little voices may have evolved, now capable of belting out songs in perfect pitch, but they still remind me of the babies they once were.
I feel their hugs around my neck—now more mature since they can reach me standing beside me. Closing my eyes, I can still recall those chubby arms wrapping around me when they were tiny, resting their little heads on my shoulder. Though they’re nearly grown, they still ask for a “kid sandwich,” a sweet hug that includes mom on one side, the kid in the middle, and dad on the other. They no longer need to be lifted for these embraces; they stand tall on their own, yet in those moments, I still feel the presence of my babies.
My youngest, stretched out under his sheets, is growing taller and stronger. His little boy feet are becoming more pronounced, and he’s no longer the chubby toddler I once knew. As he runs, it’s no longer amusing; he’s gaining speed, moving further away from us. I glance at his back and realize that soon, he’ll be as tall as his siblings and even taller than me. I can’t help but wonder if when he’s older, shaving and with a deep voice, I’ll still recognize my baby in him.
Because I see my baby in each of them, I want to hold them close, even when they sometimes resist. This morning, I reminded my son about the importance of warmth at the bus stop, a habit ingrained from the years I swaddled him tight to keep him warm and safe. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and confidence, assuring me he didn’t need a coat. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though he meant he didn’t need me. But then I remembered that my baby is still there; he just requires different forms of support now.
They need me for different reasons—helping with homework, navigating challenges, driving them to practice, and preparing for school plays. These new responsibilities bring their own joyful moments of motherhood, different yet just as sweet. As we evolve, I realize that we’re a mosaic of past experiences, layering on new memories without losing the old. The past remains woven into who they are, allowing them to be my babies again, even if just for a fleeting moment.
I cherish those moments when I can hug them close, relishing the times they let me nurture the little ones still within them. I also take a deep breath, standing tall as I embrace their growth. I celebrate their independence and strength, understanding that this is my role: to prepare them for the adults they will become. I marvel at my beloved children, knowing that as they change, my love for them will always see the baby within.
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Summary
This heartfelt reflection dives into the enduring bond between parents and their children, emphasizing how, despite growing up, kids always retain a piece of their baby selves. Through poignant memories and evolving roles, the author celebrates the beauty of motherhood and the joy of witnessing children flourish while still holding onto their roots.