As I cradle my newborn, I glance at the digital clock across the hospital room, noting it reads 2:32 a.m. My little one is just 24 hours old, and we are both navigating this new experience together. I attempt to teach him how to nurse, though I realize I’m just as much a beginner as he is. It feels surreal to have him here; it’s as if I’ve known him forever, yet he’s just entered my life. Together, we fumble through this learning process.
Fast forward, and I find myself in the living room, watching him walk around and scatter toys from his bin. He’s become increasingly demanding, wanting my attention at every turn. While I cherish these moments, they often leave me drained. I’m pregnant with his sister and managing my exhaustion. There are times I dream of the day he won’t rely on me for every little thing. In this short span of time, he has taught me that it’s possible to experience immense frustration with someone while feeling an overwhelming love that tugs at your heart.
Then, I’m bending down to help him with his shoes, noticing they’re on the wrong feet. My younger son is perched on my hip as I try to teach him how to tie them. His frustration mounts because he wants to do it himself, and I’m juggling a baby and two toddlers. Eventually, I tie his shoes for him; we need to escape the house for fresh air. I long for a brief respite, a chance to recharge, so I can continue embracing the challenges of motherhood.
Time moves on, and he’s in fourth grade now. He asks me to bake Angry Birds cupcakes for his birthday celebration at school. I stay up late crafting them, and for the first time, I can tuck my kids in without them waking me through the night. With renewed energy, I surprise him with the cupcakes, but he’s embarrassed when I offer to carry them into class. I know this will likely be the last year he wants such a gesture.
Now, he’s 11, riding his old bike and spending summer days working with his grandfather to save for a new mountain bike. Finally, the day comes when he proudly purchases it himself. As he talks to the salesman with confidence, I glimpse a young man emerging, someone who is growing more independent and knowledgeable.
Approaching 14, he’s preparing for his first semi-formal dance at the end of Junior High. When I ask if he needs a corsage or flowers, he rolls his eyes and says that’s not done anymore. Trusting his judgment, I drop him off with a friend, watching them from a distance as they wait for their dates.
How did we arrive at this moment? One minute, I’m teaching him to tie his shoes, and the next, I’m witnessing him step into adolescence. It’s a poignant reminder that while we guide them, they also illuminate our path.
Occasionally, I catch him in a simple moment—fixing his hair or preparing a snack. He knows I’m watching, yet he remains blissfully unaware of the flood of memories that rush back to me: the first time I held him, the guilt of times spent apart, and the depth of love I have for him. He doesn’t realize that in these moments, I see him not just as the young man he is becoming but also as the baby, toddler, and child he once was.
He has no idea he takes my breath away.
This article originally appeared on December 7, 2017.
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In summary, watching your child mature into adulthood is an awe-inspiring journey filled with love, frustration, and growth. Each stage brings new challenges and cherished moments, making parenthood an emotional rollercoaster.