I Can Do It Myself

"I can do it myself," replies the small boy I carried in my belly not four, short years ago. And he does—struggling at awkward angles to force his head through, wiggling squishy hands and toes each into their proper sleeve. What once was my job is now his, and I watch him closely, almost scientifically. I want to mark these movements in my memory's timeline. A baby, but now a boy.

"What book would you like to read tonight?"

"Let's read the trains books."

"Ok, which one?"

"I want to read all phree."

"Just one tonight."

"No! Phree!!"

The finger dimples of my Beef Supreme have smoothed over but his hands still retain that soft baby pudge. In my mind, he is still so little, yet, these hands have coordination. They tug and adjust pajamas, hold markers to draw, pick shell delicately from hard boiled eggs.

My boy's voice is a delightful song, full of mispronunciations and misuse. Slami and Splosion and Yew Nork. To fist instead of to punch. I'm toasted rather than toasty. That's babashaba. His tone remains tiny but the vocabulary continues to grow. 

Grow. Grow. 

Grow until his fear of the dark turns into fear of a test or fear of not being cool or fear of a college rejection.

Grow until he's too big to snuggle and tickle and lace his fingers into mine.

Grow into other languages and new ideas. 

Grow tall and thin out.

Grow until the things he can do himself astound me, springing forth not from the body, but out of a creative and bold and brilliant mind.

Grow. 

Grow. 

Grow.

But tonight, I breathe. And everything is still.

Outside, the rain washes away another day.

We read all three books.