Bretfust

I knew this moment was coming. I know they don't stay small. Proof floats in front of my eyes all day long in 14- and 12-year old bodies. But the surprise of those older two (weren't they just born yesterday? I remember it so well!) has caused me to savor more slowly the sweetness of these days with my 6-year-old. Listening a bit more intently. Focusing more on finding times to read, to play (even though there is much less time to actually do those things with him).

Today's reading time brought a bit of pain. With one word. Breakfast.

There's a list in my head of so many words that he's said in his unique way for so long. Most of them he's self-corrected over time. I don't correct my kids when they say words in their own way. I don't allow the older ones to correct them, either. I selfishly hang on to the childish fumblings that roll off their tongues, loving the sound of each mispronunciation that reminds me of how young they are. I try to wring each day of their childhood for all it's worth, knowing that the setting sun is a day gone forever.

His list of words has grown so short now, as it should have. But a few words remain: Napkum for napkin. Frowed for throwed. Bretfust for breakfast. Others that don't come to mind right now.

Today's reading story brought a new word: breakfast. I didn't know it was coming, but I saw it before him. I held my breath. He paused, read it in his head, pronounced, "Bretfust." Continued reading. The selfish Mother inside argued, "Let it go! He'll get it later! Keep him little!"

The teacher/responsible/guilt-infused Mother argued back: "It is time to let this word go. Don't cling. Help him be where he needs to be."

"Go back," I said. "Look at the word again. It's pronounced break-fast."

One more small step toward Older, one giant step for mom toward letting go.

He had to read that word 4 more times. Each time, "bretfust" came out, followed by the correcting: "break-fast."

It's so much like Jake losing his Vietnamese. Jake is learning English and has to leave his native tongue behind. (I have been surprised at the grief that this has brought to my heart.) His brother must learn the correct way to speak and leave baby-hood behind. I must learn to enable, to strengthen, to encourage to grow -- and leave my grief & distaste for change behind.

For now, though, my heart is sore. Tears are burning my eyes. I'm battling to do the right thing. Bretfust is leaving.