Lately, it seems, I’ve been a little fixated on my boys growing up. They do that. I know. Still, it seems to be staring me in the face recently.
I remember when YaYa hit double digits (age wise). We made a big deal out of it. Tom ranted and I raved. We marveled at how he appeared to have doubled in height overnight, and took turns inspecting YaYa’s face for the arrival of blemishes on a daily basis for a week or so – as if they would appear merely because he was officially in his tweens. It was good fun.
Today, the significance of his age is pointed out by the simple fact that I now have to buy two boxes of candles to have enough to light one for each year we have been blessed to have him in our lives.
As my baby officially reaching his teens, I feel the push to let out the reigns a tad. Not a lot, mind you. He’s still my baby, you know.
On one hand, I want to encourage him to be autonomous yet I still want him to need me. While I want to foster independent thinking, I also want to be consulted for important matters. I want him safe from harm and yet, I don’t want to coddle him.
I am discovering that letting go of my hold on him is really a hard thing to do — much harder than when BoBo was this age. On a deeper level, this may have something to do with the fact that he is the last to leave the nest. It’s hard not to think about how when he does fly the coop, there will be no one left but me.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Today, YaYa is 13 years old. Join me, please, in celebrating the gift of his life.