I knew it was coming. I mean, it was right there on door jam in the kitchen. It was only a matter of, well, time.
This barely decipherable picture is the spot on the kitchen door jam where we record everyone else’s skyrocketing height. My youngest son is, as of Tuesday, officially and irrevocably taller than me. I am now the shortest member of my household.
I knew it was coming, but I brought it on myself. Some evil genius prompted me to say, “Hey, let’s look and see who is taller in the mirror."
We looked at each other, back to back in the mirror. "Oh, My God!", I cried, clutching my head in despair. Simultaneously, a gleeful smile lit up his eyes. We turned to face each other. Eye to eye, we wrapped our arms around each other and stared into each other’s faces. He grinned broadly, triumphantly. My eyes started to well. My baby. Gone.
He saw my sadness. And because he’s just like that, he bent his knees and shrank down. He looked up at me again, one last time.
There may not be an end to motherhood, but there are endings. This is one, marked out in smudged pencil scratchings on a wall. And the only thing that mutes the sadness is the smile on his face, spreading like a brand new dawn.