The day you bring them home from the hospital they are tiny helpless creatures who depend on your faithfulness, your energy, your love. You swaddle and change and feed and bathe and when their eyes gain focus it's you, only you. You hold small and fragile. You are big and important.
My children would hardly even give dad the time of day until they were through with nursing. I was ever-important and needed. This is good and tiring and just a little bit gloat-worthy.
They each grew to greater independence and there was the day when I realized everyone could buckle, bathe, feed, dress, and tie their shoes themselves. In fact, most of them became furiously independent before they could do any of those things well. It's ok that they wore plaid and stripes and black socks with their shorts - they did it themselves.
Then yesterday.
I stood on the porch small and unneeded and watched her drive away, alone.
Bittersweet ran down my throat and my heart kicked me for ever letting this happen - this growing big and shrinking small and that blasted independence young adults need.
Blasted.
We talked for an hour on my bed when she came home.
Small is the new big and important.
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This post is part of Five Minute Friday, a writing exercise where Lisa-Jo hooks us up with a writing prompt each week. This week the prompt is SMALL.