Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Dancey pants.

I sat there and watched with complete wonder and amazement. You picked up the big kid scissors, without asking, of course, and started cutting. Others tried to correct you. Hold them this way, they said. How about making a truck, they said. Use this color, boys don’t wear pink, they said. But I just watched.

Bold, carefree boy. You make me so happy.

You held up a small piece of green paper, with a slit down the middle. A pair of pants. Dancey pants, dancey pants! you sang. I have some dancey pants!

Silly, beautiful boy. You make me laugh.

You picked up piece of paper you had previously discarded. This is the delivery truck for the dancey pants, you told me. And it did look like a truck.

Smart, creative boy. You make me proud.

You grabbed another sheet. This time, just one big slice right down the middle. Big dancey pants, you sang.

You are almost four years alive now, and you are still new to me. I never know what is coming next when I’m with you, but I hold my breath watching you and I deeply breathe you in at the same time. In those moments, you are my favorite thing anyone ever made.

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