I was doing my hair in the little bathroom of the basement apartment we were renting at the time. We were taking the young adults at our church on a weekend retreat and I was running late, doing too many things at once, sure I was forgetting something. My son – my only son at the time – was 7.5 months old and he was the reason I was running late, doing too many things at once, sure I was forgetting something. He was mobile and in a hurry about it, and I was feeling glad that he wasn’t walking independently yet.
I heard him near me somewhere so I turned around and there he was, right behind me in the bathroom doorway, pulled up to standing against the wall until he let go, and then just standing there on his own, and then he took a step. So much for being glad he wasn’t walking. He had a funny little look on his face as he plunked down onto his diapered bottom, and it was right then that I knew for sure I was in trouble. 7.5 month olds aren’t supposed to be toddlers but there I was and he was, and there was nothing I could do but chase him around and be tired forever.
I turned around the other day and my son – my oldest son now – was standing on the roof of a garage. He will be 14 in a couple of weeks and I feel like I’m back in the basement apartment again, doing my hair, thinking about everything I need to do, and turning around to see him take his first step too soon. He wants his learner’s license, he wants a job, and he is plotting his departure from under our roof the minute he turns 18. Part of me laughs and the other part me of knows I’ll turn around one day much sooner than I want to think about, and he will not be pulling stunts behind my back because he will be running his own race in his own lane.
I am trying to remember to turn around more now.
copyright (c) 2019 Jenna Pelias // all rights reserved