The bitterness of eight

I haven't felt it before. At least not like this. But eight is so much, so big, so not a baby for so far, that it kind of hurts that he grows.

I get the feeling that  I can notice a lot of differences. That he really looks older, that he is stopping being a small child to become more like, I don't know, him, and I love to see it, to be present in this transformation, but I do get that, as he puts it: he growing into his own person, into his own ideas apart from me, becoming himself, and I feel proud and kind of sad.