I want to write.

I want to weep.

I want to turn the clock back eleven and a half years and hold my chunky baby who needed me for everything.

I want to fast forward in time, making stops at 16, 18, 21, 25 and 30 to make sure my handsome young son is healthy, happy and safe.

I want to be his constant shadow protecting him from harm, fending off bullies and off-putting-gold-diggers, helping him over obstacles I could never scale at any age and watching every cell in his body grow as the amazing human he is.

And yet …

I hold my breath, wring my hands and watch him ride his bike off to school alone knowing that he’ll be making the trek back to an empty house with nothing more than a key and a promise to call me at work when he arrives safely.

Which he did.

And we both grew up a little more today.

Ouch.