On the steps he takes away, and the arms he still runs back to
There was a time he needed me for everything. Now he waves me off at the door, independent and unbothered, already chasing the next adventure.
Independence comes quickly, faster than I can catch my breath most days. And, like me, he’s never been one for affection. Long hugs are reserved mainly for bedtime as we rock and read. Kisses are given as a funny game, not as tenderness. I can hold him, but mostly just if we’re dancing.
He marches to the beat of his own drum, and all I can do is watch and tap out a beat for him to follow.
But sometimes my fiercely wild toddler who loves to run will slow down. Sometimes he will sit on my lap and refuse to be put down. Sometimes he needs me so much that he screams and cries when I try to let go.
And so I won’t.
When he’s tired, when he’s sick… sometimes I’m all he needs. I whisper in his ear as he cries that it will be okay. He rubs his eyes and snuggles up close. Sometimes he needs me to hold him tight, to show him that the world can be big but also small.
More often than not, he runs and laughs as I try to catch him but can’t. Almost always, he’s running away from me instead of toward me. But sometimes he needs me, and he can’t run to me fast enough. His tiny feet, those rolls on his legs — they fly toward me and I catch him in my arms. Sometimes he needs me to pick him back up, to know that you can be down and still get up again.
Sometimes he flies free in the grass, without a backward glance. He laughs and moves and I swear I can almost see the wings that will carry him away from me one day. I am not even a flicker in his mind as he throws his head back and looks at the sky, running like he has somewhere to go other than here. Then he tumbles, and the shock of falling sets in. He wails, remembering that I am there. Sometimes he needs me to lift him from grass-stained knees, to remind him that the bruises, the heartache, the hurt — the pain I’d do anything to take for him — can eventually heal.
When he is afraid — of barking dogs or the spinning merry-go-round — my brave boy sometimes needs me then, too. He throws up his arms and reaches for me, and sometimes my embrace can make it all better. Sometimes he begs me to pick him up because even though he can walk, sometimes he just needs me to carry the burden, the weight of his world. And I will.
It’s the saddest truth of motherhood, I think, that as the days — then years — go by, my child needs me less and less. But for some things he will always need me.
He will need me to learn what unconditional love looks like. That you can make someone mad and still love them. That you can forgive even when you can’t forget.
He will need me to remind him of who he is when he forgets. I will nudge him forward when he's stuck, and steady him when moving forward feels too hard. I will show him that the best things in life take work — and that he is capable of the work it takes to reach them.
He will need me in the small ways first — for bandages, bedtime stories, a ride across town. Later, he will need me in bigger ways — for lessons in patience, in money, in how to stand on his own two feet. The needs will change, but they won't disappear.
But in this moment, for right now, he just needs me to be there — to be present, to sit with him on the couch while we watch a cartoon. He doesn’t need anything more than to know I am here. And I always will be.
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