“Am I five yet?” My son asked last night while walking to dinner.
“Nope. Why do you ask?”
“You said when I’m bigger I can sit in the front seat with Daddy.’
“Oh,” I laughed, and continued pushing the stroller. “You will have to be bigger than five for that.”
He did a mix of a grunt and a growl. “How old?”
“I don’t know. Maybe twelve?”
“Twelve is too big! I can’t wait that long.” I looked at my little boy. His maple-syrup-eyes were wide, mouth frowning. He was losing some baby fat but his elbows still had dimples. I couldn’t imagine him older than that moment.
I didn’t want to.
“Don’t rush things, bud. Try to enjoy life right now,” I said sounding like a school teacher, but feeling like this lesson was important.
“Two more roads until were there, Mom.”
“Yep. Listen, you know what I like about right now?”
“Walking with you and baby. How the sun is shining through those leaves. How there isn’t any wind, and it’s not too hot or cold. What do you like?”
He thought for a moment, one eyebrow raised.
“Being here with you, too,” he answered. My heart grew another size.
Today he was eating mac ‘n’ cheese while we chatted about how the baby would soon turn one.
He asked me, “When will I be one again?”
I thought to myself, exactly.