I think I've finally understood one of the mysteries of being a mother. It's the trait that young people can't understand as they grow up and become independent - why their mother can't let go, can't let their babies grow up. "Time has moved on," the child reasons, "I've changed, why can't she accept that?"
It's because she's still caught in the magic of this fleeting time, the time I'm living through now. It's a time when tiny hands come up around your neck and cling to you, when huge clear blue eyes gaze up at yours with total trust, when a tiny warm body snuggles into yours, sucking nutrition, growth, life from you, when a wave or a pincer grip can make you so proud you can hardly speak, and when a little face splits into a smile of pure delight at the sight of your face in the morning. It's such an unspeakably precious time, and it's over so fast, no wonder mothers say, "But s/he's still my baby..." I suppose the only way to learn to let go is to remember that they never were ours, they were only lent to us for a short time.
