It’s been a minute since I’ve written much about Jackson, mostly because he’s getting older and I’m trying to respect his privacy. Jackson is currently 10 and in fifth grade – middle school next year is looming large for all of us, well maybe more for Miguel and me than for Jackson. There’s no way he can understand all the social, physical, and emotional changes that are coming. Nothing can prepare you for puberty, not that we’re not trying with talks and books, it’s just a whole freaking lot.

It's sort of wild to witness him in these last years (months?) of childhood. There are already pieces that have fallen away: he picks out his own clothes and gets his backpack ready in the morning, he can be left alone at home for short periods while I run errands, and he no longer needs me to tuck him at night. I can see the beginnings of him yearning for more independence, though the executive functioning skills required for said independence still have long ways to go. Which is expected, he’s only 10.

Yet, there are still these moments where I find him clinging to his childhood.

“Mommy, can you make my breakfast?”

“Mommy, I want a snack.”

“Mommy, where are my shoes?”

Basically, any tasks he could do himself but would rather have done for him. Also, I’m coincidentally “mommy” instead of “mom” when these requests come in. Really, though, who doesn’t want to be waited on and taken care of that way? However, he knows he is perfectly capable of preparing his breakfast and snacks. There is nothing stopping him from lifting up his own coat off the ground to find his shoes underneath. He is 10 and there are certain responsibilities that he needs to begin to learn. That, after all, is part of raising a child, right? We teach them how to take care of themselves by gradually granting independence through increased responsibilities.

But it’s hard! As much as I’m looking forward to see him grow and thrive independently (someday, not today) I also am struggling with watching my baby grow up. I never want him to be too old to cuddle me and I fear the day I wake and realize that he doesn’t actually need me – which is of course the goal but oof, sucker punch! But it’s more than that… it always is, isn’t?

I watch Strawbaby who is living her best four-year-old life. She is carefree with little concern for consequences. She is an age-appropriate boundary pusher always seeing how much more she can get away with. If you were to draw a line in the sand and tell her not to cross it then turn your back for ten seconds, she would already have made it a mile down the beach with a smile on her face that says “whatever the consequence, it was worth it.” Because deep down, even though she may not remember the specifics, I think she recognizes that whatever consequence we create (time out, for example), is nothing compared to what she witnessed/endured before.

Jackson’s experience was the reverse. The first four years of his life were idyllic and nurturing, secure and safe. But that care-free early childhood was cut short by his sister’s illness. Before he was five years old he could read a room and understood when he could try crossing the line and when it was best not to. He learned to let his needs come second to his sisters, not because he wanted to but because there was no option. No matter how loud he cried for the snack that he wanted right now, there was no way that was happening while Adelaide was having a seizure. He was forced to learn patience, empathy and resilience. Is he better for it? In the long run, yes, absolutely, though I’m not sure he will remember it that way when he’s breaking down his childhood in therapy 15 years from now.

And that makes it all harder for me acknowledge his waning childhood. I feel like he got cheated out of his carefree innocence and should get extra time before being thrust into the emotional and physical throes of puberty - but that’s not up to me. Not to mention that I would be doing him a disservice by not teaching him how to take care of himself and others now.

So here we are, the 10-year-old and the 40-year-old both clinging to his childhood. Knowing that the growing up is inevitable but desperately holding on to these last frayed connections of what was. I’ve always known that watching him go off into the world as an independent young man would be up there as one of the most difficult things I would have to do in my life. I just didn’t realize that the journey to letting go had already started.