When my son transitioned into grade 1 at the beginning of this year that was a big milestone. It seems my little boy is growing bigger and more independent each day. This is all good. I love to see him take on responsibilities that were once too difficult for him to manage. Even conversations with him take on a more mature tone, excluding the occasional toilet joke.
Sometimes though this sense of growing up can be misleading. I sometimes think I expect too much from my son, grow impatient with him when he doesn’t understand something that seems so obvious to me, get frustrated when things aren’t done a certain way, the way I learned how to do them.
Yes he’s getting bigger and he certainly isn’t my baby boy anymore and I’m proud of that and encourage his growth where I can but sometimes it can be a fine line between the big boy he’s growing into and the little boy he still is.
When I was saying good night to my son one night I found myself just staring at him, eyes closed, peacefully sleeping. I looked at his blond curls on his forehead, his long lashes curling up against his skin, his small fingers clutching his bedtime buddy. Those little fingers, with their chubby dimples still there. Seeing these fingers reminded me that my son is still a little boy, that although being six and all that he’s accomplished so far is another step towards being big, six-years old in the scheme of life is still pretty young.
I’m trying harder to keep this in perspective, balancing his need for independence and growth with his need for patience and understanding. Trying.