When he took his first real steps as a toddler, my heart skipped a beat thinking about all the times he would stumble and fall.
When he went to preschool for the very first time, I bit my finger nails until they bled wondering how he would survive 2 hours without me.
When he was fully submerged underwater in the chlorine infested pool during swim lessons, I was ready to jump in fully clothed, pull him up and offer him air.
When he peddled away from my husband alone without training wheels, I held my breath until I saw him gain momentum and independently ride off.
When he stepped onto the school bus headed for kindergarten, I rocked myself in the fetal position while crying online.
This past weekend, when my firstborn magically grew one inch in one month and the lifeguards deemed him tall enough to ride the adult slide at the pool, I saw the fear in his eyes as his stiff legs awkwardly carried him up the steps. As always, I smiled to show him it was okay and he was safe. But inside I was a disheveled mess "What if he flips around? What if he drowns in front of my eyes? What if my panic attack causes me to have a stroke and I actually drown in front of my own three kids? I didn't even do a good job at shaving, what would the paramedics think?"
He came down the slide SMILING to the sound of my very loud and quite shameless cheers that bounced off the walls. And then, after a quick kiss on the cheek and a huge high five, he joyfully skipped up the stairs for a total of 57 times down the slide in 2 hours.
My little guy is growing up. I, of course, am completely not ready for any of it. What's next? Sleep overs? Algebra exams? Driving? Prom? OMG, I think I'll need a prescription for Xanax in a couple of years. Or maybe now. Yes, now.