Last night, Ezra stood on the sofa, arms outstretched for what he calls his Carry. He asked me which one was my bad shoulder, and he settled into my arms for his nightly ride up the stairs. Every night I carry his 62-pound, giraffe-limbed body up the one flight of stairs to his bedroom.
One of these nights – maybe even tonight – will be the last time we do The Carry.
For as long as he's been alive, I have carried Ezra, who is 8, up the stairs to bed. I used to walk him all the way into his room, and when he was smaller I'd toss him on his bed. I don't remember how old he was when I stopped tossing him, but over the years his nightly Carry has eroded. We went from the bed toss to placing him down on the bed, then putting him down on the floor near his bed, then just to the door of his room, and these days his ride ends at the top of the stairs.
I'll have to step up my cross fit workouts if this is to continue.
Most recently, I've started taking a break halfway up the stairs to adjust him and take a few breaths. My shoulder – separated in February – jams a little every time he shifts his weight.
Seriously, it's ridiculous. This can't continue.
But I'm not quite ready to say goodbye to The Carry.
I'm not ready to say goodbye to his head on my shoulder, to inhaling the perfume of shampoo or the grassy tang of outdoor play. I'm not ready to say goodbye to his kisses on my cheek or to how tightly he squeezes me. I'm not ready to say goodbye to the feel of his body in my arms, reminding me so of when I carried him and his older brother with much more ease.
The Carry is knotted to a period of time with my boys that is rapidly slipping away. I even got teary at the coffee shop the other day, watching a woman snuggle her infant in her arms. I'm acutely aware of the cheetah speed of childhood, of how quickly our sons will transform into men.
So just for one more night, I brace myself and adjust him in my arms. His backside rests in my linked hands, his arms wrap around my neck, his legs swing and dangle. I kiss his springy cheek and then press my face to his. I inhale deeply, taking in the smell of Pantene and Dove soap. I imprint each sensation in my memory, ready to store it away with the rest of the Ezra boyhood collection.
"Mom?"
"Yes, darling?"
"I farted."