For me, it happened on a Tuesday afternoon.
It started small. He closes his bedroom door now. He used to leave it open a crack, like a little question mark. Now it’s a period. When I ask about his day, “fine” is a full sentence. When I try to kiss his forehead goodbye at school drop-off, he ducks—just slightly—and gives me a fist bump instead. Mom-Son -1-
I will not make him feel guilty for growing up. I will not cry where he can see me (okay, maybe just once). And I will learn to love the fist bump, even while I miss the sticky, small hand in mine. For me, it happened on a Tuesday afternoon