As he places his little hand into mine, I think to myself …
one day, his skin won’t feel as soft and smooth.
one day, his hand will be too big to fit so neatly into mine.
one day, he won’t need to hold his hand.
and, one day, he won’t want to hold my hand.
It is the fact that one day he won’t want to hold my hand that saddens me as a mother. He already tries to shake off my hand by the time we are halfway across the road, trying to tell me he is a big boy who can cross the road alone, even though he isn’t. I know it is nothing personal as he is just asserting his independence. So every time I try and hold his little hand a little longer in case it is the last.
Having his little hand in my hand gives me such joy and warmth. We are deeply connected for that moment. In that instant we walk together, and nothing can stop us. Mum and son against the world. The lightest of squeezes from me lets him know I am thinking of him. The pull of his hand non-verbally requesting me to follow him on another adventure.
When will the time come he won’t need to hold my hand to balance him across a ledge or a front fence? I know it won’t be the last time I play that protective mother role for him. My own mother, an older woman now, still puts out her arm in front of me if we are crossing the road, instinctively holding me back from oncoming cars. This is a mother’s protective instinct that will never disappear.
I wonder about the time when he won’t want me to hold his hand. Will this be close to the time when he won’t want me to kiss and cuddle him before I send him off for his day? I do hope behind closed doors, the sanctuary of having a cuddle on the couch won’t be lost for a long time. His body continues to change and grow. He isn’t the small baby that I used to hold in my arms.
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