I have an aversion to cliches; truisms make me want to secretly roll my mind’s eye.
But for all my avoidance of speaking the obvious and overuse of statements, all I can sentimentally think of when I look at this boy is
“Where did the time go?”
Then I roll my eyes at my own commonplace inward thoughts.
(But I still continue to wonder.)
I feel anxious at the prospect of the next small number of years he’ll be with us until he’s grown.
I feel a sense of urgency, a need to do better.
I want to fix my motherhood mistakes, take more time.
I need to remember. To laugh more. And I hope he’ll forgive me when someday he realizes the blunders I’ve made, for the learning I had to do with my firstborn.
The fact that I am his mother makes me happy and scared and hopeful.
I want to be more patient. To grow alongside him.
To hurry up and make more memories.
To (hesitatingly) use another cliche,
I really, really want time to slow down.
I am his mother, and I took his school pictures because I don’t want to pay for bright flash and a blue background. It was fun.