The other day I wrote about how fine I will be when my son turns 18. Well, not fine, but OK. He's only 6 now. I figure I've got 12 years to plan for it, but ...
He started losing his teeth recently. His baby teeth. The only remnants of his tininess. (Although he was never tiny... almost 32 pounds on his 1st birthday may not constitute as even small.) His legs are now taking the shape of Daddy's legs. Strong. His shoulders are broadening. His brow sometimes furrows deep in thought. His feet fit larger shoes...with ties.
But that smile...His smile is jack o'lanternesque. He lost his last big front tooth yesterday. When he lost it, so did I. I lost it pretty bad inside. My eyes welled up and I had to turn away for fear he would see me.
I remember when he first got those teeth. The crying. The cuddles. The drooling. All the joy he got out of cheesing it up for the camera. Those teeth were the next step for him. He was growing and I was happy.
But now, I can't help but want time to stop. Those teeth are fading fast. The tooth fairy has come 6 times in the past few months. It's old hat to my son now. He puts his tooth outside his bedroom door and adds his money to his bank every morning after like it's his job. He says he's saving for some nunchucks to help his future profession as a ninja.
So I sit here trying to play it cool and act like it doesn't bother me. But it does. Being a parent is weird. I mean, I'm sitting here crying over teeth. TEETH. But it's so much more than that. I love watching him grow and shed those things that hold him back, but I want them to stay at the same time.