I don’t know how to let him go. He’s not a baby anymore and it’s becoming more and more apparent that he’s growing up.

I remember the terror I felt the first time I realized that he no longer had the baby scent.

And then the first time he smelled. I mean really smelled. As in “go take a shower you smell.”

And the first time he actually met my mouth instead of my chin or my nose when he gave me a kiss.

And all the small things that I find myself now terrified of losing: his hand when he crosses the street, the goodnight kisses, when he falls asleep in our bed–his little hand searching for my shoulder and the sweet smiles in his sleep when I say his name and tell him I love him, the first time he’s embarrassed when I tell him I love him in front of his friends, or the first time he doesn’t rush to greet me when he comes home from school.

Every stage of his life has been my favorite. He’s my favorite. He’s always been my favorite. No one makes me laugh as hard as him. He has my sense of humor. Of course I’m going to think he’s hilarious. He’s thoughtful and serious and sensitive and laughs at fart jokes because they are hysterical. They are. I don’t care what you think. THEY ARE HYSTERICAL. Prudes.

I don’t know how to let him go. But I will because I love him with quiet desperation and care. And the day will come when he has to let me go, too. Loving someone means that you will eventually feel the loss that comes with letting go. And I’m scared to death.