This week, my little tiny baby boy is graduating from 8th grade. That can't be. He's so little! Look!
If you want to get technical, that picture is a tad old. But if you want to talk about something non-technical, something much more real, then that picture was taken like five minutes ago, and I can hardly breathe. Because five minutes has gone by, and this is what he looks like now:
How did that happen?
Grammar school is behind him. Nine years is a long time. Nine years of brand new school years each Fall. Nine years of fresh binders and long, sharpened pencils. Nine years of renewed commitments -- his and mine -- to be better. Nine years of watching a wee child grow up, perform Shakespeare, play guitar, win a State Cup soccer championship. Nine years of listening to his outrage at an unfair world. Nine years of being proud of his willingness to take risks and do new things.
Four more, and it's launch time. So tomorrow evening, I'll watch him graduate from 8th grade, I'll wipe a tear or two away, and then I'll crack my knuckles and get ready to hold on for more.
Congratulations Sam! I look forward to watching you flourish in high school. Good things await, my son!
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1 comment:
I know. I think it's hardest with the oldest and the youngest, right? I feel like there are all these parts of my younger self in my oldest, because I had him when I was still young and an inexperienced mom. It was weird watching him walk away with 18 years of my life.
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