Growing Up Is Painful for All of Us

I walk Micah to his van each morning for school, opening the door for him and strapping his seat belt on. It's our routine that he grabs the van door and laughs until I tickle his arm to make him let go so that I can close it. Sometimes our routine varies. I carry him in snow; partly because his royal feet don't like the white stuff, partly because he takes a full minute per foot to kick the white stuff off as he's getting in. In rain we both kick things into fast forward.

He sometimes decided that he's going to be a big boy and go to the van all by himself. He'll have me put on his backpack, he'll wave goodbye (code for "you stay here, Mom, I'm going it alone") and he'll close the door in my face if I try to follow after him. And it's alright to grow up and do things on your own, because that's part of life. Even at 8 years old, he's still my baby, and on his Big Boy days my heart sighs a little as he takes another step in maturity.

Apparently growing up is hard on his end, too. Today was a Big Boy day, and with the light drizzle going on out there I wasn't too broken up about it. (I melt in rain. We've all got our weaknesses.) I helped him put his backpack on, he kissed me goodbye, and closed the door on his way out. I waited until he was down the steps before opening the door to be sure the van driver would help him if needed (she always does; she's a gem) and watched as he opened the van door himself. The driver helped him off with his pack and gave assistance with the seatbelt. Micah waved, and I waved back. But he wasn't happy. He held out his arms and looked at me. Even the driver knew. "Karen, he needs a hug."

So I slipped on some shoes and went out in the rain to remind my son that he'll always be my little boy, even if he grows up.