My son knows he is changing, but I don’t think he’s ready to let his childhood go.

His body is changing faster than his mind, even if he is the most fascinating 11 year old I’ve ever known. He’s grown tall, and his limbs are heavy. There is a whisper of a moustache on his upper lip, and his arms and legs are covered in a soft fuzz; an indication that he is taking after his father. His hair is no longer soft like down, but has developed into thick curls that refuse to be tamed. That one is a gift from my side of the family, as is his voice, loud and booming and always on max volume.

He knows he’s not the same, but he doesn’t know what it means.

During his groggy morning daze and his soft sleepiness at night, he still asks for hugs and cuddles. Sometimes, he’ll come up to me and with his deep voice say, “Bro, you haven’t hugged me today.” He sometimes tells us he misses being small and squished in between mommy and daddy in bed. He asks me to keep writing the little notes that I leave in his lunchbox. He’s still a little boy in that way, still needing the comfort of mom and dad, still wanting to be loved on like a baby.

But I know he is changing because he now asks me, “bro is my hair fixed?” and stands in front of a mirror checking his face. He wears deodorant now, has opinions on his outfits, and every so often, I see him looking at a cute girl. He rarely kisses me goodbye when I drop him off at school, and he likes to spend more time with his friends. He has lofty plans for his YouTube channel and celebrates every new follower. He plays the violin and the piano and the flute and makes his own music on the computer. He’ll eat a full bowl of ramen and then asks his sister to give him the rest of her food. He doesn’t like drama, but in his own words, likes to be “close enough to hear the drama.” He’s funny and silly and so very smart.

We all know he is changing, but I don’t know if any of us are ready for any of it. Not that it matters; change is always a certainty.

When I look at him, I can’t help but miss the tiny little boy who used to be attached to my hip. My mini-partner-in-adventure who went with me everywhere. I knew that little boy better than he knew himself. This young man on my couch is a stranger, a new person we’re still getting to know. A goofy housemate who eats all the snacks. I can’t wait to get to know him better, even as I miss the small version of him.

I can’t wait to see what will occupy his mind, what passions fill his heart and mind with joy. I can’t wait to see what kind of big brother he grows into, what kind of friend he becomes. I can’t wait to have more conversations about the world and life and faith, and yes even Minecraft. I welcome it all. If it means he’s talking to me, then I’ll hear all of it. I am excited to get to know this new person, this pre-teen who listens to classical music and steals his grammy’s slippers. I want to see what he will want to save his money for, which movies transport him out of this timeline and into another. I can’t wait to find out what kind of girl impresses him and makes him nervous. Even all the not so good stuff, the things that make him sad or mad or uncomfortable, I want to know them all as they change. As he changes. Because he will change over and over and over again, and I’m going to try my best to keep up each time.

I’m sure they told me about this, in so many words, the mothers before me. This moment that every parent is caught unprepared for. Because how do you prepare to lose a person you’ve known for years only for them to demand to be accepted for this new skin? This new self?

As his mom, I know my job is really simple: to give him a safe space to discover who he is. To allow his bones to stretch out his skin and his heart to expand his ribs. To let him learn and unlearn and relearn as much as he can, without fear of losing the love of the two people he used to snuggle in between. To know that he can jump off the magical world of childhood and into the terrifying foray of young adulthood, knowing that should he need it, we’ll always be a soft space to land on.

One day, when he’s all grown, he’ll need to come back. Even for short moments, and even when he towers over us, his childhood will always be here waiting for him to curl up and sleep in. Then when he’s ready, he can get back up to his full height and face the world, refreshed and renewed, and continue on. They will probably come farther and fewer in between, and I’ll ache for the days when I would hear “bro, hug me” on an almost daily basis. These are definitely the good ol’ days. May we never forget to live them to the fullest.