I can’t tell if it’s happening more, or if I’m just noticing it more, but recently Thomas has been crawling into my lap a lot.
He turns six tomorrow.
More than I do with my other kids, I spend the week before Thomas’s birthday remembering the final days of my pregnancy. I remember each day so vividly, and then how he came hurtling into the world as if that made up for being a week late. It’s like jogging an entire race and then sprinting across the finish line. Not cool, Thomas.
I cannot believe it’s been six years. I cannot believe he’s going to be six years old. He’s a legit big kid, not the mischievous toddler that he’s been type-cast is in my mind.
Thomas finds his way onto my lap during meals, during family movie night, and when we go onto the deck for Popsicles. Without saying anything, he just sort of nestles next to me, then wriggles between my arms and rests his head on my chest.
If I was trying to deny that Thomas is getting older, holding him in my lap isn’t a good way to go about it. He’s all angles and elbows; there’s absolutely no baby chub left on my once-upon-a-time bald, roly poly baby boy.
His legs dangle out over mine, and he shifts his weight back and forth, like an adult trying to get comfortable on a tricycle.
Every time he gets close, I welcome him onto my lap. Especially this week, because this little boy is getting big and Mom is hopelessly sentimental about it. And because we all know that today he turns six, which means tomorrow he’ll be in college studying microbiology, but still calling his mom because which one is the washer and which one is the dryer?
(OR he might still be eating Cheetos on his parents’ couch, sneaking sips of his mom’s Diet Coke, and resting his head on my shoulder while we watch TV. A MOM CAN DREAM!)