I've caught myself lately, when hugging my son, squeezing a little tighter than normal, pressing my cheek to his a little longer. I catch myself whispering "Mommy loves you very much. You make my heart very, very happy" against his temple, kissing his forehead a second or third time before I let him go play. At bedtime, when he throws his long six-year-old arm over my neck, I force my brain to slow, slow, slow and absorb the feeling of it, the solid lovely weight of his small bones against me.
It's suddenly very clear to me that these days are ending. These days of endless hugs and kisses, of wanting to hold my hand the second he comes out of the school door, of wanting to climb into bed for a cuddle, are winding down.
Being a parent means always evolving into the next stage, the new thing, and realizing that it is as thrilling and interesting and funny and amazing as what came before. But time, as they say, certainly flies.
I wish that I could say I was the mom that relished every moment of my children's lives from the second they were born. It would be a lie to claim it. I'm pretty sure I didn't even relish every single moment of today (though today was pretty awesome, all around.)
It's enough to say, to my shame - because I'd really believed otherwise all those long months as he grew inside me - that motherhood did not come naturally to me. Motherhood, I suspect, does not come naturally to a great many people. But we're not meant to talk about that, so we don't.
Mothering an infant is like doing highway construction work during a heat wave: sweaty, gruelling, mind-numbing, deeply exhausting, physically draining, and largely thankless. Except in this case, there's no such thing as quitting time (a cold beer at day's end would go a long way but, oddly, people tend to frown on that).
It's hard work, plain and simple.
But the good stuff - oh, it's good. You know the good moments when you see them: they sparkle like tiny diamonds. They make your heart pitter-patter, they make happy tears prick at your eyes, they make you go "yes, yes, see, this parent thing is going to work out. I haven't screwed it up completely."
Like when your child presses his hand into yours, squirmy and damp and so delicate, like a baby bird snuggling up against your palm, and you feel the fierceness of your love rush through you and you have to hold yourself back from squeezing too tightly because you just want to hold on to this one bubbling moment; when he flings his long, lanky six-year-old arm over your neck as you lay next to him at bedtime and he says, in a voice too loud for bedtime (as usual), "Mama, I love you. You're the best mama in the universe."
Yes. I'll collect up these treasures, these little drops in time, and store them up inside, keep them for later.
One day not all that long ago, he told me to "Go, go, Mama!" and waved me back to the car when I brought him to the second day of skateboard camp. Soon, he won't rush to take my hand as he rushes from the school doors - he'll wait, maybe, until we're out of sight of friends. Or until we're home.
And in a few years, when I look for hugs and kisses, he'll want to brush me off. "Mom! Enough!" he'll say. He'll have friends to play with, books that need reading, video games to figure out, homework to do.
And that's good. That's life. That's the way it's supposed to be. I would not wish to keep my children the same age - parenting small children is hard work, harder work than I care to do indefinitely, and I love that each passing day brings new growth and independence.
Still, I know right now that, in that moment when he turns away, I will crave his little baby bird hand in mine with a terrible intensity.
Lately, when I catch myself hugging him a little longer, or pressing my forehead to his, I suspect I'm trying to memorize the way it feels so that when the moment comes, I can bring it to mind again. I'm soaking him up, so I'm ready for the dry season.
Christina Myers is a former NOW reporter, and current freelancer and stay-at-home mom. This column first appeared on her blog, midlifeleap.wordpress.com, in a longer format. Follow her on Twitter at @ChristinaMyersA.
