I need more time.

Eighteen months. Eighteen long, and I mean, VERY long months with my son so far.

Staying home and spending 15 hours a day playing LEGOs, exploring parks, reading Brown Bear so much I’m almost certain my dog knows the order of the animals, and several tearful trips to your bedroom as you refuse a nap.

Eighteen long, tiring months of frustration, wishing for a different life—perhaps one where I ran a company and had all my ducks so neatly organized I never stressed out. Eighteen months of minimal self-care. 

But I need more time. 

In a year or so, you’ll start a part-time program and have your cute backpack, napkin notes from me, and the precious chalkboard first day of school sign that floods my Facebook newsfeed once a year. As I scroll through those, covered in poop and spit-up, wearing the same t-shirt three days in a row and a messy bun that really brings meaning to the name, I wish the time away. I can’t wait till that day, I think, baggy-eyed and wishing for time to go faster. 

I don’t mean that. Because when I sit down at the end of the day and finally have a few minutes of peace and quiet, I know I’m one day closer to 20 years of you being away from me in school, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. I stay up Googling homeschooling to think of ways to keep you longer.

I miss you, and you’re not even walking to your first teacher yet. 

I need more time. I need more of just you and me playing hide-and-seek behind the sofa. I need more of you holding onto my back like a monkey as we dance around the kitchen. 

I don’t need more hours in a day to get chores done. I need more time with you my son because for the rest of your life, you’ll be wrapped up in girls, school, sports, and careers. 

I need more time for you to be wrapped up in me. Because I’m forever wrapped up in you. 

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