Tomorrow is Owen’s last day of preschool and in just one week I will be loading him up on the bus and sending him on his way to kindergarten.  If you’ve noticed I’ve been a bit absent on this blog that last sentence should explain a lot.  I’ve been avoiding this post and avoiding just about anything that doesn’t have my guy right smack at the center of it for some time now.  I’m not ready for this, and yes, I appreciate just how ridiculous that sounds.

Little boys grow up and move on.  He already doesn’t need me to sing him lullabyes every night or to tend to his Teddy’s owies with the same consistency.  And as we prepare to welcome his little sister he’s shown even more self-reliance.  I should be embracing this development, using it as a mark of some small success in parenting, a venture fraught with so many pitfalls.  But I’m not.  I can barely type this post without my eyes welling up.  It’s too fast.  Much, much too fast.

So right now I’m squeezing every second out of these last few days with him.  Pushing him on the swing (even if I’m not supposed to) whenever he asks, reading him whatever he wants, and finding any excuse to spend some time with him because more than ever it is just all too real how little time there really is.