You hold your newborn, and there is this ache you can't believe.
You walk with your toddler, and this need to be with him is so strong.
You wonder, "How did my mother ever let go? When did she stop loving me this intensely to release me to the world, to not be with me every moment of the day, to not miss me so fiercely when we were apart?"
But you never ask your mother those questions. Those questions are just too horrible to ask.
Your child ages, far too quickly for you to imagine.
And still you wonder, "How will I ever not want to know where he is and what he's doing ever single moment of the day?"
Today we went to the orthodontist. Eldest has been asking me about a night toothpaste he is supposed to use, one the orthodontist mentioned. He knows it as the blue one.
You ask the orthodontist's hygienist about it, and she offers up a prescription fluoride tube of toothpaste in a white tube, and you accept it.
Offering it up to your child, he looks at it and says, "Jeez. You're so incompetent."
And you realize you'd better mark this day as the day when you understand how your mother could let you go make your way in the world without being in that same world every moment of every day.