It’s so hard to capture the essence of you on the page. Yet time
feels so fleeting that I feel I must try. Just to hold onto this 3-year-old
image of you, just a little longer.
Most days, you wake me up with a cry about 5:30 and then fall
back to sleep while I lay awake and wait for you to come padding down the hall
and peer over the side of my bed. “Mom, my clock is
green,” you say with pride, “Can we wake up now?” I open my eyes to
see your earnest face and while it always feels too early, how can I refuse a
smile like yours?
We snuggle up on the couch for a book or two until you are ready
for some cereal at the “cereal table” which is no longer the coffee table. You
help me with the milk and then I sit cross-legged with you on the floor and
munch cereal in my matching bowl with the spoon you have chosen for me (usually
one that is much too small, but hey, I’m a good sport.) We chat as you tell me
about your dreams (about street bikes and dirt bikes and skateboards and
kitties) until you ask, “Where are we going today?” If the answer is home, I
get a joyful, delighted squeal. If the answer is school, I brace myself for
whining and complaining. What can I say, hanging out with me is really awesome.
Of course you want to do it all the time.
Cereal done, its time for some full on play. We break out the
race cars or blocks or legos or dolls or kitchen or cars and spend a good
amount of time on the floor until I think I might go stir crazy from being
bossed around just one too many times. It’s 8:00 or so and I am ready to flee
the coop. We are out and about. When asked what we should do, you give a
hushed, excited whisper, “maybe go to the playground.”
And so often we do. Always you want me to join in the fun and not just watch. I
can sometimes coax you to go it alone with the promise that I’ll cheer for you.
And so I do. I cheer as you climb and you slide and take on challenges that I
hold my breath while I watch.
Lunch consists of your favorites, cheese sandwich, pretzels and
hummus, fruit of all kinds, peanut butter crackers, nuts, yogurt, apple sauce,
or anything else we have in the fridge. Your appetite varies and I never know
how much you’ll eat. And then its story time, picking books from the stack
we’ve borrowed from that library that we read again and again until I’m eager
to refresh our choices. We pick books about construction, kitties, or bikes.
Your favorites leave you full of questions and giggles of delight. I tuck you
in with your Ellie and Puffy, and a made up story about race tracks and your
imaginary friends Ason and Ryan Dungey. (Did I forget to mention that they have
probably already gone to the playground with us and played with us all
morning?)
You roll around for anywhere from 5-90 minutes, trying to relax,
or maybe trying to stay awake, until you collapse in a heap in the blankets on
your floor. I take nap time seriously and usually sleep, too.
When we wake up its time to get ready for Daddy to come home and
when he does, we watch you jump off the couch into piles of pillows or race
around the street on your bike. Daddy or I will ride with you, sometimes going
on a “long ride” that often ends at Oma and Papa’s house, just around the
corner. You may go into the backyard alone and hit whiffle balls off your tee
as I prepare dinner, or perhaps get good and dirty playing with your dirt bikes
in the raised garden beds.
You always love to be a part of the conversation and when one of
us says something to you, you immediately turn to the other and eagerly report
our news (as if we didn’t hear it before). You will perform for us and we will
exclaim “oh!” (or some other similar utterance) and you will immediately ask,
“Dad, why you say ‘oh’?” And then, there are the questions, your insatiable
curiosity that keeps me on my toes and thinking. I have never before had to
contemplate the “why” philosophy of so many things in life.
It seems you are always in motion, and it seems you always need
our undivided attention, but Daddy and I steal glances at each other when we
see you finally playing alone, or throwing tennis balls for Easton. Easton is
also your nighttime companion which has helped us sleep through the night (at
least until Easton scratches and rattles his collar or tries to bust out of
your room.)
And always, every day, I look at you and marvel at how much
you’ve grown. I marvel at how you are becoming your own person and how lucky I
am to know you. You are shooting up and thinning out and talking in ways that I
couldn’t imagine a year ago (“Mom, we have grape juice or ice water this
morning. Which would you like to drink?”) and think where did this little boy
come from? Where did my baby go? I’m grateful that you still like to play baby
and that I can still wrap you up in a bundle and cuddle you after bath time.
I’m grateful that you still fit on my lap, head under my chin, while we read
our bedtime stories. And always, I am grateful, every single time I hear you
say, “Mom, I love you.”
If you only knew...
