"Look at you!" I all but hollered as Connor walked away. "You're nearly as tall as I am!"
He is. When Connor was three or four years old, I could rest my palm on his head, my arm extended—you know, if ever the need arose. When he was five or six, I could rest my forearm on Connor's head. Nowadays, if I bend my arm and hold it awkwardly at shoulder height, I can then rest my forearm on Connor's head. (Just standing here on the corner of Awesome and Bombdiggity, resting my arm awkwardly—but oh so comfortably, I dare say—on my son's noggin. That's me.)
Connor has historically looked forward to growing older. When he was two years old, he could not wait to turn three, because then, he claimed, he would wear a belt, drink hot cocoa and hot tea, have a deep voice, and learn to play guitar. When I noticed Connor's height today, he rushed back to me, hugged me tight around the waist—and sobbed.
Broke my heart.
Once he calmed down, he explained, "I'll never be little again. I want to be little forever." Growing up has not come easily to Connor. He struggles to bridge the gap between "classmate" and "friend." He prefers conversation with interested adults. Thinking inside the box at school pains him.
Earlier in the day, Connor caught me watching him study the framed photos I'd hung on the wall. "I wish I could be that young again," he told me, pointing to a photo of himself as a toddler sitting wide-eyed in a wading pool.
I know, buddy, I know. I prefer our days of lining up toy cars and toy trains on the floor over these days of lining up letters and numbers on ruled paper. We can still do that, you know.
a month older and a look back
watching the wheels