My little man

So this is the summer that my ten-year-old is no longer a child. Physically he is growing . . . he and I wear the same shoe size, which is no small feet (take that Shakespeare!) considering that mine are ridiculously large; and I can't help but notice when he takes his shirt off to play shirts and skins with the neighborhood boys how his waist has narrowed, his shoulders widended, and the muscles in his arms are well, muscles. But beyond all of that, I notice how he listens. He takes in attentively adult conversations and understands them. He offers solutions to everyday household problems and usually offers something more practical and efficient than I. He loves to feel useful and wants to work like a man. Currently disgusted is he that he is not allowed to work on the roof with Dad. My little priest who once asked how God invented skin, reminds me when we forget our morning prayer. The oldest brother, he is both obnoxiously bossy and lovingly protective. Walking out of a department store restroom today, he told me that it smelled like the two-month-old daughter of a friend of ours that he has fallen in love with. I laughed, thinking he meant the dirty diaper that he saw changed a few days ago, but he looked me in the eyes in earnest and said, "no, Mom, it smells all soapy and good like Bailey." Oh, my dearest little baby bird, please don't ever stop paying attention to the world and all of the questions in your head and the sensory delights that are so much who you are. And while I love your old soul self, please don't grow up too quickly . . .