Once upon a time, I thought that my children growing up would be the death of me. I cherished every milestone, tucking away a mental image to look back on in my old and gray years; years I dreaded with all my heart.
This morning, the Man-Cub gently woke me from my slumber, not to complain of a sick tummy, not wailing for a pre-dawn feeding, not crying over a nightmare or accidental flooding of his sheets, but; to let me know that he had made coffee and that it would be waiting for me when I got downstairs.
Suddenly, I'm not so sad about this "growing up" shit.
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