He used to think I hung the moon. 

When he was little, he looked for me in every room. We’d lock eyes, then he’d go back to whatever he was doing. He just needed to know I was there.

When his eyes grew sleepy, he would reach for me. His body would nestle into mine, melting into every nook and cranny. I’d hold him like that for hours sometimes, rocking back and forth and back and forth. 

When he was happy or sad or excited or scared . . . it was my arms he’d reach for. I was his safe place and his happy place, all wrapped up into one. 

As the years have gone on, our dynamic has morphed into something else.

The shift was subtle at first. 

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There were the nights he fell asleep on his own before I could make my way to his room to rub his back and sing his songs.

There were the movie nights when he opted to stretch out on the other couch instead of curling up in my lap.

There was the time he turned to me and asked, “Can I walk with my friends instead?” at the school Trunk-or-Treat and the behind-the-bleacher football games with his buddies during local sporting events instead of cheering from his usual place tucked against my side. 

There was the confidence in his voice when I drove him to camp and at the curb he said, “It’s okay if you drop me off here, Mom. I can walk over there by myself.” 

It’s the little things only a mama heart would notice, too, like when he dropped the -my from mommy to mom and started shampooing his own hair. 

Things I do that once made him belly laugh now get just a chuckle—or sometimes even an eye roll or blush of his cheeks. My silly dances in the living room. My obnoxious singing to old songs in the drop-off line at school, hoping to start his day with a smile. 

He’s growing up, this sweet boy of mine. 

Our conversations have grown deeper. 

Our bond has grown closer. 

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He gets things now—like really understands them. When he asks tough questions about the world, I’m often surprised to realize he’s ready to hear the answer. 

Sometimes I feel pangs in my heart for the boy he used to be—the one with the squishy cheeks and the tiny hand that could barely wrap its way around my thumb. The one who needed me so completely. The longing is so heavy some days that my chest physically aches.

He’s growing too fast. He’s changing so much. These years are too short, just like everyone said they’d be.

But most of the time, my heart simply bursts. He’s so kind and hardworking and good to his core. He’s funny and strong and brave. He’s motivated and wise—so far beyond his years. I love watching him out on the baseball diamond and in the classroom and at the kitchen island while he eats Goldfish and does his homework after school. 

I look at him—this handsome boy who stands in front of me. The top of his head reaches my chest now, and I know if I blink too long I’ll open my eyes and find myself staring directly into his. He’s not so little anymore, but he’s even more incredible than I ever could have imagined. 

He used to think I hung the moon, but his universe is a lot bigger these days. 

The letting go part? That hurts a little bit. I think it probably always will. 

But the pride I feel in watching him grow? It’s all so very worth it.

I know how much he loves me, but he can’t even begin to imagine how much I love him.