My son Leo is six
We walk along the leaf-strewn path, and without making eye contact or missing a step, his warm, soft fingers grab around my wrist. I know what will come next. He often does this to steady my arm so he can place his little hand in my big one.
He doesn’t care that I just scolded him five minutes ago for being pokey. He knows what he needs to feel happy, safe. He doesn’t care if I seem distracted or stressed. And as a mother of four, I’m always too distracted and too stressed.
He doesn’t know that his mother has quietly suffered through depression and anxiety, with days where any physical touch literally makes my skin crawl, or his bubbly, incessant chatter can rattle my nerves.
And why should he? He’s only six.
Leo is my youngest, my last. I’m glad to be done with middle-of-the-night feedings, diapers and potty training. Parents of grown children tell me to enjoy this stage of childhood while I can, that the time is fleeting and once it’s gone, I’ll miss it. But as a mother that is distracted and stressed, I sometimes think I wouldn’t mind my kids already being grown.
Even at six, Leo is my child who needs the most affection. “You love me best, right?” he’ll ask. He laughs at my jokes. He still needs kisses when he gets hurt and wants to sit on my lap to listen to a story. Sometimes, he’ll stop in the middle of what he’s doing and come stand before me, arms stretched wide. “Hug?” he’ll ask.
At bedtime, he can’t fall asleep without first being tucked in with his blanket and stuffed cat, then hugged and kissed. He has rules, he says. He’ll wrap his arms so tight around my neck, threatening to never let go. He always holds on until I have give him a little tickle and can pry his grip loose.
But already he hides the big, pink, stuffed cat that he sleeps with, because he’s six, after all, and it’s a big, pink cat. And already he’ll say “Mom, stop!” as he rolls his eyes because maybe my jokes aren’t always so funny. And he doesn’t want kisses from me on the playground or to be walked to his classroom, preferring to give one final wave and go into school alone.
He is six. He will never be little again. He won’t always fit on my lap. And I don’t know how many more times he will reach for my hand. Because you never know when the last time will happen.
Because you only know it was the last time after you look back and it’s already over.
He reaches for my hand as we walk on the path, and so I take his and hold it tight. While I still can.
Because he’s already six.