My kid is four and a half now. Every day, I marvel at something he says or does. He makes me laugh and roll my eyes. Sometimes the stuff that comes out of his mouth is so smart… and sometimes it’s smart-alecky. He makes up his own stories and songs. He tells jokes. And the questions. So many questions.

Once upon a time, we were worried that he had a speech delay. He didn’t really start talking until after he turned two. It was one of those things where the pediatrician told us we probably had nothing to worry about, that boys tended to talk later and he’d probably catch up eventually. We took him to a speech pathologist who kind of said the same thing; she felt like he was really smart and just wasn’t motivated to talk because he had parents that tended to do a lot of talking for him, but that eventually he would start. I don’t know if the pediatrician was right – that he just outgrew the speech thing, or if it was the speech pathologist’s help, but once he finally did start talking, there was no stopping him.

It’s hard to believe we were ever worried about that. His preschool teachers told us that he needs to work on raising his hand and not yelling out, and that he always has something to say. They also said he is friendly and kind and always tries to include everyone. He loves numbers and shapes and drawing and writing and science. He loves anything having to do with outer space and astronauts. He can follow all the instructions to build stuff out of LEGO all by himself. He is starting to read. He has a stellar memory. He can hear a song and start humming and singing along within a verse or two. If there was a preschool version of “Name that Tune,” he would kick ass. He loves going places and is a good traveler. He’s always been a pretty good eater. His favorite food is currently steak, medium. Or shrimp. He is getting the hang of soccer and is definitely a water baby – loves his swimming lessons and will sit in the bath until the water turns cold.

Spending the past four and a half years at home with him has been amazing. I’m so lucky that I was able to do that. I’ve gotten to watch him go from this teeny-tiny helpless little baby to a big kid who can now pick out his clothes and dress himself. He can make himself a peanut butter sandwich or microwave a soft pretzel.

Four and a half years have gone by in a blink.

When he was still just a baby, only a few months old, we would get up in the morning and I’d nurse or, later, he’d have his first bottle. Since I wasn’t (still ain’t!) a morning person, I’d feed him in bed and then he’d fall asleep on the bed next to me while I watched a couple hours of the Today show or dozed off myself. Later on, I would lie on the couch with him and hold him for his mid-day nap. It wasn’t that he was clingy or that he wasn’t a good sleeper. I just loved being able to snuggle with him while I watched TV or read stuff on my phone. I didn’t need to put him in the bassinet or the crib because I had nothing else going on. I didn’t have anything else to do but love on my baby.

But then I wanted to start writing again and I realized the only way I was going to get any work done was if I forced myself to put him down for that nap. He slept just fine and I sat in front of the computer and was actually able to write for a couple hours every day.  I guess I felt kind of guilty about it, even though he didn’t know any different. It was harder on me because I felt like I was giving something up by going off and doing something for myself.

But it worked out okay. I was actually able to get things done. I had a few pieces published here and there. I was surprised when I applied for a writing job and actually got it. I decided not to go back to work teaching to see if I could actually make the writing thing work.

And so far, I have. I’ve written hundreds of posts. I’ve written three more novels. I decided to go back to school and have written dozens of short stories and essays. All because I finally decided to do something for myself.

The first time we dropped him off at his play school when he was about sixteen months old, I was nervous at the thought of him being without me for three whole hours. And again, it was harder on me than it was on him. But then, as we’d watch him toddle into the building without looking back, I realized that he would be just fine, and I would, too.

While it was initially hard for me to accept, I like to think that when I learned to take my time back, I turned around and poured my good feelings about it into the kid. He went to play school that first year one day a week and the transition went smoothly. He definitely didn’t like to see the other kids crying and clinging to their mommies, but always reacted with a kind of “What’s the matter with you?” look on his face, like the other kids should have known it was really no big deal.

The following year, it was two days a week, and his confidence (and mine) had grown by leaps. I could leave him at the door, kiss him goodbye, and that was it, with no tears shed from either of us. One mom stopped me on my way back to the car and asked me how I did it, just say goodbye and walk away, and didn’t he ever get upset when I left? I told her no, he was always fine, because I’d learned not to make a big deal out of the goodbye, but to make a bigger deal out of being there to pick him up.

When he started preschool at age three, he seemed disappointed that we showed up to meet-the-teacher-day and hung around with him, even though it was just meant for the kids to find their classrooms and see where they’d be spending all their time. Again, from day one, we were able to leave him at the door, and then I could go claim three hours’ of kid-free time to get stuff done.

He goes five days a week now, and I think I have pretty much mastered the art of multitasking and cramming as much as possible into those three hours every day. On top of all that, we are blessed with a kid who still sort of naps, who, even if he doesn’t sleep, will happily hang out in his room for an hour and a half or so after lunch, playing with stuffed animals or “reading” books in bed, which gives me even more time to finish up whatever I started earlier in the day.

It’s gotten so easy, and it works for us, and we’re both happy with the situation. He loves school, I love getting stuff done. He likes to sing at the top of his lungs in his room for an hour, I like to sit at the desk in the office one floor below him and laugh because I can hear him over whatever music I’m listening to while I’m writing. And then, when nap time is over, I get to go in his room and give him a great big hug and we have the rest of the afternoon to watch cartoons, have parades all over the house, and roll out shapes in Play-Doh.

But that’s all going to change soon, because next year is kindergarten, and even though that’s still nearly a year away, it’s already hitting me hard. Because we’re going to have to do the whole thing all over again. I’m going to have to let go a little bit more. I’m going to have to watch him get on the school bus all by himself, which he is already super excited to do. He’ll be fine with leaving me for the whole day, because he’ll have a big giant world of new things to see and learn and do and will be so busy he won’t have time to miss me.

Which just means I will need to fill my free time with more things for myself. I’ll be finishing up my thesis. I’ll be looking for work. I’ll be writing. And the whole time, I’ll be wondering where the past few years have gone.