Some mornings when I drop off Truman at school, I feel a wistful tug at my mommy heartstrings, sensing the sweetness and the poignancy of each fleeting moment in time and an awareness that such moments soon blend into days and into years gone by.
We grown ups can forget how hard life is for kids, how big the world seems, and how lost on the playground kids can feel.
Sometimes Truman gives me a hurried look just before turning away, and it really gets me: I know he's preparing to face the trials of his day. I hope that he will recall the pep talk I gave him on the ride over and remember that he's strong and brave. Sometimes I’m thinking about the bad dream that woke him (and then me) in the middle of the night and our ensuing snuggle; I hope that sense of Mommy comfort resides somewhere deep within him when he needs it most.
This morning, I watched him check for rain and then earnestly adjust the three hats he wore for Crazy Hat Day. He slung his Star Wars backpack over his shoulder, and as he headed for class, I noticed that his pants seemed barely to reach his ankles. Suddenly, his legs seem way too long for his frame. When did he become so lanky?
I know all too well what monumental developmental changes lie ahead for my sweet boy. And I'm bracing myself for the metamorphosis of adolescence. We can't stop time, but I feel it slowing down a bit when I tune in and pay attention, savoring a hug and a sweet glance over his shoulder on a Friday morning just before my boy disappears into a sea of crazy hats.
