(one for all the new mamas out there)

Owen has his first sleepover this week. He's so excited - he has his special stuffed giraffe packed, he'll bring his water bottle and his pillows and his sleeping bag.

What I would give to press my ear to that wall, to crouch outside a door cracked, to listen through vents at the back and forth between two buddies. One seven, and mine turning seven in a week.

When Owen was a baby, people asked me why I never put him down, wondered why I held him non-stop, whether he lived in that sling, didn't I want to foster independence?

I told them this is how we do things, this is how we like it. I had to answer that a lot.

He was a cautious kid, even from the start. Cautious and observant, wide-eyed from birth, taking it all in, more than many realized. He felt most comfortable, happiest, most secure on my hip or in my arms. He rarely cried as a baby, and when he'd start, I'd go to him, no matter who was holding him or where we were.

"He's fine." "Let him fuss." "I've got him," they'd say, turning slightly away with my baby. And I'd politely insist (or ignore) and I'd pick him up or take him back and he'd stop, back with Mama where all is right.

I knew what he needed, what he wanted, even when no one else saw it. When they quite possibly (probably) saw a young, controlling, new mother -- I stuck to my gut, my heart, and I did what I knew my baby needed.

As a toddler, he never ventured far. At the park with friends, other two year olds would escape the parental grip and flee, free to roam and climb and play. But my boy would happily sit with me, my lap his perch, for the entirety of the playdate, only venturing across junglegym bridges and down slides with his hand wrapped in mine. He wasn't afraid, he just didn't want to explore alone.

"Doesn't he want to play?" "Well someone's a mama's boy." "He's going to have to learn to leave your side at some point." I'd smile and nod. Yep. At some point.

We were a team, a package deal. I heard many well-meaning (and plenty of mean) comments about needing to let him go, to encourage his independence, to push him to try things on his own. I heard that this was all because I held him too much. Because I never put him down. Because he lived in that sling.

But I let it slide. I knew my child. Who he was, what he needed. And I didn't see the rush in pushing him away, in placing a disproportionate weight on the virtue of independence.

He was close to his dad, too; and to his babysitter when we were at work or class. But he continued to shy away from crowds of kids. He'd rather lay claim to a quieter space, one with plenty of room. He didn't like being crammed into close proximity with a cluster of kids, had no interest in joining a group activity. He had a big personal bubble, and he'd rather hang back and watch than participate.

He was an early talker, and he felt more secure talking with adults. If a grown up walked towards him while he held a ball, he knew they understood him when he told them it was his. But when another two year old approached, arms flailing, babbling excitedly, he grew scared and frustrated that they didn't understand his little sentences: "This is my ball. I don't want you to take it." And he'd freak.

Years passed, preschool and playdates continued, and the kid-to-kid communication gap shrunk. And in his own time, this boy became more comfortable with elbows bumping, with clusters and groups. Bit by bit he ventured further, running across parks and playgrounds, but always coming back to check in, to refuel with a snuggle from his mama, and I was always there waiting with open arms and a spot on my lap.

And then kindergarten: a teacher, a class, a school, a bus. A half-block walk home on his own, feet skipping and backpack bouncing. He makes new friends everywhere he goes -- at the park, the pool, the playground. He waits in line, he takes his turn, he jumps feet first and arms to the sky, straight into the boy-piles of life.

We never forced it. We never rushed him. We never worried. Even when other people did, when they thought we should.

There is no one way to do it. There is no ideal timeline for independence. There is your child. And his own needs. And his own self. Honor it. Trust your heart. And your gut. Be firm but polite. (Or not-so-polite, if need be.)

Because we are the ones who know our children best. Who know what's best for our children.

He's turning seven next week, and he's going on his first sleepover. He's so excited - he can't wait to venture off. He'll bring his stuffed giraffe, and his pillow. They'll stay up late and talk and giggle hard from inside sleeping bags, behind doors cracked.

And we'll be here when he's ready to come home.