My heart broke this week...
It happened quietly, really. A spontaneous email I wasn’t expecting that day. One line of text:
“Congratulations. We’re thrilled to offer Bobby a place at our school for 2027.”
And just like that, I felt it, the sharp ache of time slipping away from me.
My first baby. My chubby, curly-haired boy who once begged me to play Thomas the Tank Engine, who slept under my arm for a whole decade, who thought I was the person who hung the moon and placed the stars in the sky. Suddenly, that very same boy has officially been accepted into high school.
And while it’s one of those milestones every parent looks forward to, it’s also one of those gut-punch reminders that childhood doesn’t last forever. It slips away in tiny little pieces you barely notice.
He’s changing, my Bobby. A lot. Still my sweet, kind, funny boy, yet there’s a new edge now. A layer of independence that’s both beautiful to see as his mum, but equally brutal to witness. The way he shrugs when I ask if he needs help. How he gets himself up, showered and ready for school before I’m even awake. The way his bear-tight hugs have turned into more of an obligatory reached-out stiff arm.
He’s not pushing me away; he’s just becoming his own person. And that’s the part that hurts most… because it means I’ve done my job. Well.
He doesn’t need me in the same way anymore.
Not for tying his shoes, making his smoothies, or laying down with him to sleep. These days, he needs me differently. More quietly. As the person who listens from a distance, who gives advice (only when asked!!), who stands on the sidelines with pride and support instead of being at the centre of his world.
Sometimes I catch glimpses of the little boy he used to be. In the way his face softens when he talks about something he loves, like Pokémon or the AFL draft or how he still absentmindedly says, “Love you, Mum,” before walking out the door for school every morning. Those moments are fleeting now and I find myself holding onto them tighter.
Because here’s the thing I’m learning that no one really warns you about: the letting go doesn’t happen all at once. It happens slowly. In tiny, invisible moments that sting and sparkle all at the same time. The voice that suddenly sounds deeper. The hugs that feel shorter but mean more. The way he asks me directly for Christmas presents because he knows the magic of Santa is simply that childhood magic.
He’s growing up and it’s everything I ever wanted for him. But my gosh, sometimes it’s hard to stomach.
I’ll keep standing here, loving him through each new layer, cheering him on from every sideline and quietly grieving the years that have already passed. Because even as he steps into his next chapter, one thing will never change. He will always be my first baby. My greatest lesson in unconditional love, commitment and sacrifice. And what will be my most brutal experience of having to let go.
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