“I’m not going to hold your hand anymore.” This is what my oldest told me as I was walking with him to bed the other night, my arm extended waiting for his typical response. Instead he pulled back, hiding both arms behind his back while walking with an intention of space between us.
I furrowed my expression into a disapproving pout before asking, “Why not?”.
“Because I’m too big for that”, he stated matter-of-factly.
“You will never be too big to hold my hand”, I insisted, though I knew that wasn’t true as I was saying it.
He’s at the age where I’m not sure how much to press. It’s a funny in between, one that gets pointed out to me on a regular basis. Like when we were at his school when I had dropped him off after an appointment and Jedi ran back to give me a quick hug goodbye. “Enjoy it now, because he’s not going to do that for much longer”, the secretary remarked. I’m sure she’s seen many growing kids alter in the course of elementary school, though I laughed it off. Ever tall and knowledgeable for his age, but still full of questions and fears. He’s not ready to distance himself, yet he takes more steps away every day. I still have years.
Those years that turn ever quickly to days.
“Can I still give you a kiss goodnight?”, I wondered.
I did anyway.