(Trigger warning: mention of child death, but not actual! Just as a basis for comparison)
My husband and I are blessed with one biological child: a nearly-eighteen-year-old, tall, handsome, responsible, kind, gentle young man. I may be a bit biased, but he really does seem to be a good guy. I love that boy with all my Zach-loving heart! That has 100% not changed, nor will it likely ever.
….And yet, thinking back on his infancy & childhood, returning my mind to snuggling with him, breastfeeding him, carrying him around, laughing and playing with that little boy…. That’s all definitely gone, never to be retrieved. It’s just as well that our young adult progeny doesn’t require breastfeeding or carrying, goodness knows! We’re proud of his achievements in the various aspects of his life, not the least of which is his ability to nourish himself and get himself around, not only within the house but now from one suburb or city – or state – to the next; and we wouldn’t change a thing about him, really……
It’s just that it hurts. I blessedly haven’t experienced a child of mine dying – praise be to God! I hope I never will, and my heart aches for those who have; but it occurs to me that this transformation from little child to grown (nearly) adult is akin to that. The baby that we knew, the toddler, the rambunctious preschooler, the inquisitive, parent-adoring, question-asking schoolboy, he’s definitely gone. We weathered the holier-than-thou phase of adolescence and, I’m happy to say, appear to be on the other side of that: Zach really is such a sweet young man, and I very much love sharing hugs and kisses and laughs and insights with his nearly-adult self. I wouldn’t trade him for the world! ..I just mourn the loss of my sweet little boy, sometimes.
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