Monday, January 25, 2010
The light is blinking on my home phone's answering machine as I clean up the kitchen tonight. It's a message from the school's administrative office. My Kindergartener's online registration needs to be updated by such-and-such a deadline.
I make a mental note as I scoop my sleeping boy off the couch. Those long legs, bearing a matching set of skinned up knees, wrap around my waist and I hurry to deposit him in his little bed.
The ever-present reminder of KINDERGARTEN THIS FALL (!!!) has made me more than a little wistful. I watch my nearly-five-year old sleeping with a countenance as soft and angelic as my newborn baby's.
How can that little boy be old enough for Kindergarten?
Don't get me wrong... I mean, he sometimes acts a little more like he's thirty.
("Hey Mom! Good morning, how's your back feeling today? I think I'll have a blueberry waffle as soon as I get dressed")
At other times, he seems to only muster the maturity of a toddler.
("Drew! Get that action figure out of your mouth! We don't put toys in our mouths, son!!! It's gross AND dangerous!")
Somtimes he cries when another child accidentally steps on his foot.
But he won't shed a tear when he acquires a double dose of scraped knees on the playground at school.
He dresses himself, feeds himself, monitors his own behavior ("Mom, I'm turning off the T.V. because Sponge Bob is coming on and I know you don't like that show!").
Yet he still must wear a Pull-Up to get him through the night.
He can carry his sister across the house, holding her securely in his strong arms.
Those same arms, however, get tired and restless after holding a bottle to her mouth for more than 60 seconds.
His manners... impeccable.
Unless, of course, he's interrupting my conversation with another adult to demand food or drink or a piece of gum.
His little legs can pedal a bicycle more than 7 miles when he's challenged to keep up with his daddy on a Saturday morning ride.
But he's got a good mind to use those legs to stomp and kick and throw quite a tantrum when he's told to come in from playing.
We're crossing a bridge from "little" to "big" boy.
And when he insists on riding his bike across that bridge, I can barely keep up.
I can barely stand to keep up.