There’s a songbird in my chest, its wings fluttering wildly against the cage of my ribs. It sings of pure, unadulterated joy, a melody woven from sunlit mornings, sticky-fingered hugs, and the infectious giggle that erupts like a kaleidoscope after each peek-a-boo. My son, my little sunbeam, turns four in 18 days, and the symphony of his existence echoes through every pore of my being.
Yet, woven into the vibrant tapestry of this joy, there whispers a melancholic counterpoint. It’s a tune whispered on the wind, a mournful oboe echoing the fleeting passage of time. My little boy, once cradled in the crook of my arm, a tiny 5lb9oz, now asks me to chase him around the yard, his legs pumping like pistons powered by pure, boundless energy. His chubby cheeks, once smooshed by endless kisses, are now etched with the beginnings of cheekbones, the shadow of a nascent jawline. He’s not a baby anymore, not quite a boy, but something magical in between – a fleeting mirage shimmering on the horizon of childhood.
The bittersweet symphony intensifies as I rummage through his toy box, once overflowing with stuffed animals and brightly colored plastic playthings. Gone are the rattling mobiles and gum-ring teething toys, replaced by cars, vehicles pirate ships with intricate rigging and dinosaur robots that walk and talk. I trace the outlines of his handprints on the wall, tiny smudges marking his growth like notches on a doorframe. Each inch he gains feels like a bittersweet victory, a celebration of his independence tinged with the ache of his growing distance.
I remember the first time he held my finger, his grasp impossibly weak yet strong anchoring me to the universe. The first time he called me “Mama,” the word stumbling from his lips like a precious, wobbly pearl. The first time he took a tentative step, his eyes wide with wonder and fear, my breath trapped in my throat as I willed him forward. Each milestone, a radiant beacon on the path of childhood, yet each one marking the closing of a precious chapter.
There’s a temptation, I recognize, to cling to the past, to trap him in the bubble of perpetual babyhood. To bottle the milky scent of his hair and the soft coo of his sleep, to keep him small enough to fit snugly in the cradle of my arms. But that’s not love, nor is it life. It’s fear, masquerading as affection, a suffocating embrace that would stunt his growth.
So I dance to the bittersweet symphony, accepting the ebb and flow of time as gracefully as I can. I celebrate his growing independence, cheering him on as he builds elaborate fortresses with his plastic blocks, narrating elaborate tales to his army of miniature dinosaurs. I relish the way his vocabulary explodes, each new word a tiny supernova lighting up the night sky of his mind. I treasure the bedtime whispers, no longer the incoherent babbling of a baby but the blossoming stories, dreams, and anxieties of a developing soul.
His birthday party, I decide, won’t be a monument to nostalgia, but a celebration of the four-year-old dynamo he is. We’ll build trains out of cardboard boxes, conquer cardboard dragons with his wooden sword, and feast on a cake shaped like a train. It will be loud, messy, and utterly perfect – a kaleidoscope of laughter and sugar-fueled mayhem, a snapshot of this fleeting, precious time.
And when the last echoes of birthday cheer fade, when the moon hangs heavy in the velvet sky and the house sighs with sleep, I will hold him close, whispering stories of sea dragons and brave explorers. I will savor the scent of his shampoo, the soft weight of his head on my chest, and the steady rhythm of his small heart against mine. “I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now But the airwaves are clean and there’s nobody singing to me now.”
For even as I mourn the passing of the baby years, I know there’s beauty in the symphony of four. There’s adventure in his eyes, a world waiting to be explored with boundless curiosity. There’s a fire in his spirit, a thirst for knowledge, a fierce loyalty that melts my heart with every “I love you,” every sloppy kiss.
My son, my little voyager, the world awaits you with open arms. And though I may long for the tiny hand that once fit perfectly in mine, I rejoice in the strength of the hand that now reaches for the stars.
So let the bittersweet symphony play on. Let the tears mingle with the laughter, the memories with the dreams. For in the fleeting dance of time, I find not loss, but the profound joy of watching my son soar. He may not be a baby anymore, but he is, and will always be, my universe. And that, my love, is a birthday celebration that lasts a lifetime. ‘Cause it’s a bitter sweet symphony that’s life.’
The Original and prints of this oil painting I made of my son has just been put up for sale on my Etsy shop here https://www.etsy.com/shop/ROSESpiritualArts