A few days ago Jake lost a tooth. I think it was the last of the 'baby' teeth. He was at a rehearsal and came running out of the room with a blood-covered paper towel stuffed into his mouth, jammed the tooth into my palm, said "I wost a toof" and ran back into the session. No fanfare, no amazement at his own blood, just a tooth and a keyboard solo waiting to be played. When I reminded him that he needed to keep the tooth to put under his pillow he appeared insulted and asked me if I really thought he still believed in the tooth fairy. Exasperated, he said "I mean, I'm almost ELEVEN, Mom."
Jake is my first born and I spent his early years wishing time would move faster. I was so tired and overwhelmed that I couldn't wait for the next stage to arrive. I assumed that the next one would be easier. The next one would be less exhausting. But it never was — and I'll never get those moments back.
This time it's all going too fast.
Sometimes I just want to squeeze him and yell "slow down" or "stop growing".
Thanks for reading.