I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting. It does. There are mornings I miss the little boy who yelled “MOMMY!” from his crib like I was a rockstar entering the arena.
A fist bump.
My son, who used to hold my hand crossing any parking lot as if letting go meant falling into a black hole, pulled his hand away. Not rudely. Not even consciously, I think. He just… dropped it. He walked three full steps ahead of me toward the library door, his shoulders squared, his chin up. Mom-Son -1-
But here’s what I’m discovering in Part 1 of this journey: his pulling away isn’t rejection. It’s the first draft of his independence. I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting
Because this isn’t the end of our story. It’s just Part 1. A fist bump
I stood frozen for a second, my palm still tingling from where his fingers used to be.
I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting. It does. There are mornings I miss the little boy who yelled “MOMMY!” from his crib like I was a rockstar entering the arena.
A fist bump.
My son, who used to hold my hand crossing any parking lot as if letting go meant falling into a black hole, pulled his hand away. Not rudely. Not even consciously, I think. He just… dropped it. He walked three full steps ahead of me toward the library door, his shoulders squared, his chin up.
But here’s what I’m discovering in Part 1 of this journey: his pulling away isn’t rejection. It’s the first draft of his independence.
Because this isn’t the end of our story. It’s just Part 1.
I stood frozen for a second, my palm still tingling from where his fingers used to be.
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