This morning, my son Jack burst into my room, bubbling with excitement as he showed off the telescope and binoculars he had crafted from paper, tape, and staples.
“Can I take these to Grandpa’s today? I want to show him!” he exclaimed.
“Absolutely! I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see them,” I replied.
“Mom, they’re not real, you know,” he said with a wide grin, laughter bubbling forth.
“I know,” I chuckled, both of us sharing a moment of joy.
“Can I have a big hug?” Jack asked, leaping into my arms, wrapping his slender arms around my neck. He planted a kiss on my cheek, and I returned the gesture. His skin is still so soft and youthful—a stark contrast to his 17-year-old brother, Luke, who now sports a scruffy beard. These days, Luke tends to favor a kiss on the top of my head rather than my cheek, likely because he towers over me by at least five inches.
Jack remains the only one in the family shorter than I am, and I cherish this. Ten years old is a delightful age. I’m making every effort to savor these moments before he transitions into the tumultuous realm of eleven, a phase that promises middle school, a sprinkle of acne, and likely braces.
With just a few weeks left in the world of ten, I’m acutely aware that this is my last experience with this age, especially since Jack is my youngest. He’s evolving rapidly—almost hourly. One moment he’s snuggled up asking about his baby days, and the next, he’s lamenting how he’s not old enough to drive or shave.
I adore ten because, even though he’s capable of doing so much independently, he remains a child at heart. Jack only needs reminders (usually a million of them) to brush his teeth or take a shower. I no longer have to hover near the bathroom to ensure he doesn’t get into mischief with the shampoo.
Jack still sees me as cool and smart. He approaches me with questions and concerns, fully trusting in my ability to guide him. Whether we’re at the library or grabbing pizza, he occasionally lets me hold his hand, a simple yet heartwarming gesture.
He doesn’t require me to wait at the bus stop for him anymore, but he’s always glad to see me when I do. This is a boost for my ego, especially with two teenagers in the house who have perfected the art of the eye roll. But I know that day is coming for Jack, too.
It’s a cliché to say time flies, but it truly does.
At dinner the other night, the kids and I were discussing the latest movies and sharing stories from our day. They all seemed so grown-up—too grown-up for my liking. I couldn’t bear it any longer. If I couldn’t halt their aging, I could at least act younger myself.
I playfully launched a spitball at Luke, who laughed and tossed it back to me. Jack looked up and admonished, “Mom, this isn’t how we behave at the table. How often do we have to discuss this?” before taking a sip of iced tea and gargling it, prompting laughter all around. Later, as we cleared the table, those long, skinny arms wrapped around me once more, catching me off guard. “I love you, Mom,” he said.
Yes, I’m going to miss ten.
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In summary, as Jack continues to grow, I find myself cherishing every moment of his childhood, especially his sweet age of ten. The laughter, the hugs, and the innocent joys are fleeting, and I’m determined to hold onto them just a little longer.