My son sits in the front seat now.
He’s tall and thin and man-childish. My floorboard is high and he’s all-legs so his knees stick up into the air, seemingly at eye level, interfering with my operation of the stick shift, making me constantly wonder who this tall person sitting next to me is, and how in the hell he got to be so big so fast.
Of course, it wasn’t fast at all. Not really.
It’s all very frog-in-the-kettle, watching your children grow up. It happens so gradually, you’re almost unaware of it.
They’re born and in a couple of days or less you put them in the car for the first time, so careful with everything, making sure all of the straps are snug and in the proper place, clicking the seat in place, wiggling it a few times to make sure it’s not going anywhere, so fragile they are. And for a while, that’s where they ride, in this mini-fortress, facing away from the front seat so when you look in the mirror you cannot get a good look at them. You just trust the seat is doing it’s job. They’re probably sleeping anyway, or sucking on a pacifier, or gurgling baby language at the ceiling.