James, year six

James,

Today you turn six. SIX. At six I can no longer pretend you are a baby. I can no longer pretend you are a toddler, or even a little kid. Being six (and one of the tallest, smartest and biggest kids in your kindergarten class) means you've officially graduated from anything that could be considered small. And the very last of your babyness (your sweet little perfect baby teeth) are loosening and bigger stronger (less straight) teeth are moving in.

James, my dear, I love you so. I try to express it with words and I come to a loss. You still want to hold my hand walking into school, you still smile when you see me, you still want your back scratched every night, and to be tucked in just right before bed. But many things, most things, you are doing yourself.

With each new victory you need me less and less, and it's a bittersweet feeling. Of course I want you to grow and change and become an adult that doesn't need me every single day of their life, but that's going to hurt too. Recently you told me that when you're big you were not moving away, because you'd miss me too much. Because you love me too much. As you were telling me this you started to cry, that the very thought of not seeing me when you wake, kissing you before bed, helping lay out your clothes for the day, was too much to bear.

The thing with that feeling is you'll grow out of it. Before long you'll want your independence. You'll be on your own before I even blink. But that feeling, the feeling of wanting to care for my son will never leave me. You'll need me less and less yet I'll never need you any less than I do now.

I love you my sweet boy. More than you'll ever know. Happiest sixth birthday. I adore you.

Mama (which you still call me, thank goodness!)

It's a rare day I get a photo with these two. Thanks love!