It seems to me that you were just a wee baby the last time I looked - your tiny hands were tightly clenched to my fingers and you were brand new. Together, you and I set off on a journey - that of mother and child. We learned together you and I. Ilearned to be a parent. I learned to be YOUr parent. You learned to walk and talk and laugh and play - you developed an imagination. Oh how you developed an imagination. Then I blinked.
You were in kindergarten. Your little legs could barely reach the bottom step off the bus. Your backpack dragged the ground and you were gone - with barely a wave and look back at me waiting on the curb. You learned to read and write and made friends. I learned it was okay to let you go. Together we learned how to make a darn good Pinewood Derby Car. Then I blinked
Now you are 13 - almost taller than me. Your voice deepens with each word you speak. You look more like a man and less like a child. You've learned about responsibility and have had to make some tough decisions. I've learned to let you make your mistakes and if I wait - patiently you will come to me when you need me.
I am afraid to blink.