On the quiet ache of watching them grow up
It’s happening quietly. No milestones marked on a calendar, no party or photo op to announce the change. Just subtle signs scattered through our days: the way Caleb’s legs stretch longer under the blanket, how Holden calls me “Mom” now instead of “Mommy.” We’re not in the baby years anymore. Not even in the little-kid years. We’re somewhere in between, on the cusp of whatever comes next.
I used to put all our Halloween picture books in a basket by the couch, swapping them for Christmas stories when the season changed. Each night, we’d pull one out to read before bed: Room on the Broom, Five Little Pumpkins, Snowmen at Christmas. Those pages were soft from use, their edges slightly bent from tiny hands.
Now those books sit in a box somewhere, untouched and nearly forgotten. I can’t remember the last time I read to them at bedtime. These days, it’s an argument to get them to read for homework. The ritual of stories has been replaced by reminders, and the joy of reading feels like something we have to enforce instead of share.
Caleb, my oldest, has never asked about Santa, or the Easter Bunny, or the Tooth Fairy. But I can feel the questions lingering in the silence. Each holiday could be the last one he believes, or at least pretends to. Maybe he already knows, and we’re both keeping up the act for each other.
There’s something tender and painful about knowing the magic won’t end in one clean break. It will fade quietly, until it’s gone. I’ll only realize it after the fact, when the cookies are left uneaten or the twinkle lights don’t draw the same wide-eyed awe.
It used to be easy to get them excited for things: pumpkin farms, Santa dinners, library events. Now I have to drag them along. Caleb rolls his eyes; Holden asks how long it’ll take. Dinner with Santa has been our tradition since they were toddlers. I used to worry about keeping their outfits clean for the photos. Now I just wonder if Caleb will still pose at all this year. How many more times will we even go before it feels like it’s “for kids”?
Sometimes Holden still reaches for my hand in the parking lot. His grip is smaller than mine, but not by much anymore. And when was the last time he was small enough for me to carry on my hip, or scoop up just because I could? I don’t remember. Those moments don’t end with warning; they just fade, until one day you realize your arms aren’t meant to hold them anymore, only guide them forward.
Next fall, Caleb will be in middle school. No longer in the safe little bubble of elementary: the same hallways, the same teachers, the same comfort of knowing every face. He’ll walk into a new building with new expectations, and I’ll watch from the outside, trying not to hold my breath.
It’s a strange kind of grief, this slow slipping away from the little years. The toys, the bedtime stories, the magic... they’re all quietly disappearing while life keeps rolling forward.
But there’s something else emerging, too. Conversations that go deeper. Jokes that land differently. Glimpses of the young men they’re becoming. It’s bittersweet, this middle place, half holding on and half preparing to let go. Maybe this is what parenting really is: standing on the cusp, always, learning to love the in-betweens just as much as the beginnings.
And in the quiet moments, you start to understand that loving them now means letting them grow, even when every part of you wants to keep them small.
You learn to hold on where you can and loosen your grip where you must. The years slip through your hands either way — but if you’re lucky, they still reach for yours once in a while.
No comments