I’ve been struck lately by what an amazing thing it is to have a kid who isn’t so much of a little kid anymore. The physicality of that change is really amazing. I’m not raising a particularly tall son, not when both my husband and I are 5’6″. But, as I reference in the essay, Adam Gopnik who writes for the New Yorker says short men make the best husbands, so height doesn’t really matter. Still, I’m kind of in awe of this process and this person.
When women are pregnant and we picture our unborn children, we imagine them as infants. Maybe as toddlers. But we rarely picture them as full grown men. We spend the early years of our parenting shaping them into the men we want them to be but then one day we turn around and they are that man.
A voice comes from the living room and we wonder when a man stopped by to visit, except that is our son and there is hair on his face.
An arm scoops up a bag of groceries and we wonder when biceps grew on toddlers because aren’t our sons still toddlers? Won’t they always be toddlers?
A rugby ball comes hurtling at our heads and we wonder when the infant we breastfed developed such aim and power.
When did this happen? How did he get stronger than me? Faster than me? Bigger than me?
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