Ten years, 11 months, 15 days, and 28 minutes. That’s how long my son has been on this planet. How can that be?
I won’t exaggerate and say it feels like “just yesterday,” because, honestly, it doesn’t. It feels like an eternity. Yet, it’s hard to believe that I’ve been a mother for over a decade and that we’re more than halfway through this magical journey known as “childhood.”
Lately, I find myself gazing at my son, searching for remnants of the little boy he used to be. Where has he gone? His chubby cheeks have vanished, and his once-almond-shaped eyes are now rounder. Even his long, unruly hair is now neatly trimmed. My little boy is evolving into a different person, and I can’t help but recognize that these changes will only accelerate in the coming years.
Parenting is full of surprises—not just because it’s more challenging, rewarding, and fulfilling than I ever anticipated, but also because time doesn’t follow a straight path. It twists and bends, making it feel as if entire years have flown by while some days seem to stretch on indefinitely. The milestones I once thought would be significant—like walking, starting kindergarten, or losing that first tooth—fade into the background of daily life.
Instead, it’s those seemingly mundane Tuesday evenings, the midweek car rides, and the spontaneous kitchen dance parties that leave lasting impressions on our minds. And so here I am, at ten years, 11 months, 15 days, and 28 minutes, feeling like this age is monumental.
When my son hit the big 1-0—welcome to double digits!—we celebrated with the usual fanfare but minimal sentiment. We held a small gathering with a few close friends, sang “Happy Birthday” several times, and there were no tears or parental worries about the swift passage of time.
But now, at ten years, 11 months, 15 days, and 28 minutes, I find myself questioning: Is this the pinnacle of childhood? Is it the last great age before adolescence? Or even worse, is it the beginning of the end?
I’m grappling with some hefty emotions about this. I’m not one to reminisce about the baby days or rush into what comes next. I genuinely believe that the best age is always the one we’re currently in—whether it’s the infant stage, toddlerhood, or this cherished “sweet spot.” Even the “threeager” phase holds a special place in my heart. I don’t subscribe to the notion that “little kids bring little problems; big kids bring big problems.” Each stage is its own blend of challenges and joys. I’m sure I’ll love and loathe the teenage years, just as I did with the newborn phase.
But… Ten. TEN. Ten years, 11 months, 15 days, and 28 minutes, to be precise.
This feels like a significant transition. If I blink or look away for just a moment, I fear that I’ll turn back to find childhood fading into the distance like a rainbow disappearing in the rearview mirror. Ten represents one foot firmly rooted in childhood while the other tentatively steps toward adolescence and eventually adulthood.
Ten is about sports and gaming, drawing animals, and wearing those baseball cleats. It’s about catching a ball in the outfield and grappling with the sting of striking out yet again. Ten is full of slammed doors followed by heartfelt apologies. It’s deep conversations filled with tough questions about faith, sex, and societal issues. It’s wanting to know the answers and forming independent opinions while also knowing when to say they’ve had enough talking for one day.
Ten is watching movies like Moana and Star Wars, singing along to bands like The XX and Imagine Dragons—albeit with a few lyrics misremembered. It’s the occasional slip of the tongue with curse words and playful “yo mama” jokes. Ten is starting to understand sarcasm and reveling in the chaos of life.
It’s a time of fidget spinners and bottle flipping, but also sweet moments filled with handmade Mother’s Day cards and comforting friends in times of need. Ten still means morning snuggles in bed, though now SportsCenter replaces cartoons.
Ten is the smell of sweaty shirts and the constant reminders to take a shower already. It’s leaning in for hugs in public but refusing to hold hands. Some nights are filled with long bedtime embraces, while others are just quick waves. Ten is staying home alone for short stretches, walking to the store for candy, and sometimes forgetting homework yet still remembering to study for spelling tests.
Ten is rolling eyes at kissing scenes in action flicks, wanting to watch horror movies but covering their eyes for most of it. It’s feet that seem to grow two sizes in a matter of months and a forehead that reaches the crook of my neck when they lean in.
Ten is both little and big. And yes, Ten is the final, best age of childhood.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, Jamie Parker explores the bittersweet emotions of her son reaching the age of ten. She reflects on the fleeting nature of childhood, acknowledging the joys and challenges that come with each age. As her son transitions into pre-adolescence, she grapples with the idea of what this age represents in the grand journey of parenting.