Blink your eyes, and six months go by. Or at least, that's how it can seem when you're a parent. My son is now almost eight. I can't even fathom how that happened, yet I'm simultaneously aware of just how much time has passed. After all, those six months were spent playing games and reading books, singing silly songs and listening to crazy stories from his imagination. A few timeouts and lost electronics time, and just as many snuggles as ever (milking those times for as long as they'll last...the inevitable expiration date is looming...).
He really is growing up.
As he gets older, I find myself introspecting more and more. I feel more patient and calm with him the older he gets...why wasn't I more patient when he was littler? His growth has so profoundly impacted my own...yet it only seems obvious in retrospect. As much as I'm raising him, he's raising me, and that's not something I was entirely prepared for. I always say that I hope he'll be a better man than I am; I never stopped to think that he might make me a better man than I was.
It's a strange, but wonderful feeling. I've mentioned before how meaningful his name is; that saying it serves as a constant reminder that my job is to be his hero. But that concept takes on entirely new shades of meaning the older he gets, and I find myself forced to grow, or fail to rise to the responsibility.
With all the busyness in our lives, the time I spend with him is a treasure. I hope someday he knows just how much I enjoyed our time together when he was young.
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