Here at big city corporation it is Bring Your Child to Work Day. I'm pretty sure the Bring Your Child to Work Day people came up with this, but here at big city corporation we like rules and the rules are your child has to be nine or older to come to work with you. No screaming and pooping babes. Which I can appreciate, even though I think it would be a hoot to ogle some little teeny babies or wait patiently in the ladies room for some toddlers to finish waving their hands in front of the automatic paper towel dispensers. It would be a lovely distraction.
Some women in my department brought their daughters and while I thought they were indeed cute in their fancy dresses and shiny shoes it was the boys who made me stop in my tracks. Super adorable nine and ten year old little men, dressed in khakis and polo shirts. Long and lanky, some with glasses, walking closely down the hallways with their moms.
My boy at ten years old flashed before my eyes.
These boys were still close enough to be comfortable walking side by side with their moms, not yet with the attitude of a teenager who wants their own space, but older than a young child who might still cling to a parent. These boys straddled that space effortlessly, walking with confidence, but not too much.
I saw my boy, a young man. Tall and skinny, a spring in his step.
As I watched these pairs circulate around the building I thought those moms must be so proud. I was proud for them. I've said before, every milestone, every six month increment, every first day in a new classroom brings me so much joy. It means I'm doing something right, to see him growing, changing and learning as much as he does. But it also makes me sad, because sometimes I feel like I'm wishing the sometimes really challenging days away and don't appreciate this time as much as I should.
I'm starting to really struggle at 30 weeks. Feeling a deep seeded sense of panic; This feeling of I can't do this. I haven't even worked my way up actually bringing this child home, I'm still so consumed with the physical reality of trying to maneuver in this big body and work and clean and cook and not sleep and how am I going to do this for ten more weeks? How will my body continue to grow in this space that I already feel is reaching maximum capacity? How will my lungs collect any air at all?
Of course they will and I will, I have no choice and I know this. Every time that little voice springs up in my brain that says "I can't do this" I beat it down and ask of it, don't you know how fast the time goes? One day this will be a distant memory, just as the days before my first little man arrived are now. I wish someone, some brilliant physicist could explain to me how time seems to go so slowly yet really races past you at the speed of light and you don't notice until you look behind you.
Today I saw the future, walking in a pair of neatly ironed Dockers with me, open and bright eyed and growing up.
