I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to pack away your onesies or take apart your crib.

To no longer be able to rock you to sleep or sing your favorite lullabies.

To no longer feel the weight of you on my chest or feel the softness of your hair tickle my nose.

To no longer have your tiny fist close firmly around my first finger.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready for your teetering toddler steps to turn into a big kid’s run.

To send you to school and to miss eating peanut butter sandwiches and cut up grapes with you each day.

To no longer take our nature walks collecting sticks and flowers for my Mother’s Day gifts.

To no longer hear your little feet pitter-patter behind me, following me from room to room.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to stop being your favorite.

To allow friends and phones to take a more central role in your life.

To be more on the outside looking in rather than involved in your every decision.

To be asked to leave your room because you want privacy rather than begging me to come to your room to play.

To see the eye rolls or hear “Mooomm” roll off your tongue in clear annoyance.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to trade class birthday parties for graduations.

To trade training wheels for a set of car keys.

To go from pretending to be a teacher getting paid with Monopoly money to you receiving an actual pay check.

I’m not ready to send you out into this world.

But you, my child, are ready.

You’re ready to crawl, and so I’ll clap for you.

You’re ready to walk, and so I’ll hold your hand.

You’re ready to run, and so I’ll play chase with you.

You’re ready for more independence, and so I’ll let you go.

I may not be ready, but you are ready . . . 

And though you’ll always be my “baby”, when you’re ready to fly . . . 

I’ll do everything in my power to help you soar.

This post originally appeared on No Mama’s Perfect

 

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