Idaho Turns Five

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The night before he turned five years old he was bouncing and sinking on the big king bed in the hotel room. The crispy white linens were shushing over every movement he made.

"Hey Idaho?" I said to him.

"What Mommy?" he answered.

"How about I snuggle you like you are my little baby boy again? Just for a little tiny bit."

And he thought about it, his body language prepared to resist, but then he collapsed in my arms. The linens shushed again and his lean, tan body cradled right up into my arms.

I couldn't believe he let me cradle him.

I remembered what it was like when he was my only baby and really, my whole world. Before he was old enough to resist being held by me. Before I knew what a brave, real, unapologetic, athletic, sensitive, inquisitive, mechanical and silly boy he would become. Oh how I love love love him.

Seventeen seconds I got to hold him on the night before he turned five. His birthday, the anniversary of my motherhood, is the date my life hit a fast forward button and everything started sinking rapidly into a vortex of time and information. I never knew this was motherhood--watching life disappear into memories at a speed you can't control. It's a rush of so many sorts.

"That's enough Mommy," he said, his "rock star" hair shaggy and handsome around his face.

And the linens rustled back alive with his resumed bouncing.

From Anson's Birthday Adventure.
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