“How old are you going to be on your birthday, Connor?!”
We played this game a lot in the weeks before his third birthday.
“Three!”
His toddler voice turning the ‘th’ to an ‘f’.
“Wow, you’re so big now!”
I said it every time, knowing what the answer would be.
“No, I’m still little.”
He was then. Still little.
But something has changed.
***
I sit watching him, his face deep in concentration as he does a puzzle on his own, something he hasn’t done before because he never had the attention span to sit still long enough.
He gets to the end. There are two pieces missing. Buried, most likely, in the huge pile of rubble he and a friend made the day before by dumping the entire contents of the toy bins and book shelves onto the floor. The mess is huge and it takes us an hour of sorting and putting away to get it cleaned up – and for a moment he is little again, impatient and wanting those two pieces so badly he can’t sit still to help.
Then they appear and he gently but deliberately puts them into place.
And I’m looking at my little boy who suddenly seems less little.
***
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror and take a moment to wipe a mascara smudge from my brow before driving away.
He’s in the back seat, watching. And then the questions start.
What are you doing? Why? How did it get there? Where did it come from?
As I drive, I try to think about how to explain mascara to a three-year-old. To me it’s just a mascara smudge, but if I stop long enough to look past the slight annoyance of incessant questions I can get a glimpse of who he is. Who he’s becoming.
Curious. Perceptive. On a quest for information about his world.
So many questions.
I answer them all.
***
He’s been acting out lately, deliberate in his defiance. Following bedtime stories I tuck him into bed, knowing he’s not going to stay there. He climbs out before I’ve even left the room.
We play this game for an hour. It’s the Battle of Wills, and he’s determined to win. He’s big enough now to get up and walk away. To come out – over and over – to tell me one last thing before he goes to sleep. To throw things when I stand my ground, unwilling to concede defeat until he’s demonstrated his independence.
I am frustrated. I start hearing my own questions of why. Why does he do this? Why is he worse with me than with my husband? Why won’t he just go to sleep?
And then he does. And suddenly he’s little again – round cheeks, long lashes, still-pudgy hands.
I resist the temptation to climb in next to him despite knowing the opportunities to do so are slipping away. In the last week, for the first time in three years, he has suddenly and consistently started to sleep on his own. I knew this day was coming and yet a part of me resents it. So I cherish his sleeping form and wait, knowing he’ll come to me in the night and need tucking in one more time.
He’s still little enough for that, at least.
***
“I’m big now.”
I know…
It has crept into conversation, from behind somewhere when I wasn’t looking.
“I’m big enough to carry that.”
“Look how strong you are!”
“I’m eating all my food and getting bigger.”
“Good job, buddy.”
“I don’t need you to help me. I’m big now.”
I know.
***
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