O child, my own…you’ve begun that lengthening into Boy. Fingers in the mud, dribble of that last popsicle down your arms, you delve into the earth like you delve into your pancakes. Never silent, always wordless, pecking at your mother’s patience until she steps back, breathless, needing a moment’s calm from the chaos you serve up daily.
You can always find me when I sneak into the basement to hide with the laundry and a magazine.
Your sippy cups are endless libations to the grunge gods who lurk under the sofa and in the cracks of the cupboards and under your chin. We sweep them away, every night a spring cleaning, grime sliding down the drain with the last of the bubbles.
O child, my own…you are mine so shortly, so incandescently, so fleetingly.
And I bless the breath of your baby-curled head.
And I live in the tight grip of your grime-curled hand.