For the last few months, I’ve found myself missing my five-year-old. Don’t get me wrong, I love him as the nine-year-old he is now, but oh five was sweet.
Five was full of possibility for us both. We got to have some time apart and gain some independence to step out into the world and figure out who we wanted to be. Then after some separation, we would have the best reunions. There were smiles all around and big hugs too. Even at the bus stop.
At five his little hand could regularly be found in mine, despite the fact that other boy moms warned me this tethered privilege would disappear before the fifth birthday. That hand, often dirty, sometimes sticky, and nearly always warmer than mine would so frequently find its way into mine that it was just assumed that he’d never let go.
Little by little, he loosened his grip. First at school. Then at the store. And eventually, my arm just hung there. My hand cold.
So sometimes I miss five, but I can’t get stuck there. Because before I know it I will be looking back and missing nine.
To read the rest of the story please visit Her View From Home.