I lift him out of the deep bathtub. Wrap him in towels. Carry him to his room and cuddle him while he dries enough for pajamas. For one small half-hour, he is my baby. Everytime I carry him in my arms I think, "This may be the last time. This may be the last time. Smell his hair. Cuddle him close. Hold him tight."
One foot to go and he will be as tall as me. Who knows how many days I have left before he thinks he's too old to cuddle with me, too old to be carried, too old to be my baby.
I carry him and cuddle him and coddle him on bath night. Which is slowly becoming shower night, getting closer to the day when he does it all himself. Getting closer to the day when he no longer calls me mama. Getting closer to the day when he calls me mooooooooom, complete with eyeroll and head toss.
I refuse to hold him back, but I'm taking my chance while I can get it. I carry him, I cuddle him, I hold him tight.
For one small half-hour. My baby.
Through My Glasses, Dorkily
6 years ago