Don't Ever Grow Up

I’ve never been able to differentiate birds and their unique songs, but that has never stopped me from enjoy them. I assume they’re all perched upon the tall trees surrounding us, that I also cannot identify. I position myself behind one of those tall trees, filled with bright green leaves. Its trunk wide enough to hide my post-baby body. I seem to always forget how sharp the bark feels against my open palms. And how unpleasant the barren circle surrounding the trunk is on bare feet. I stand just long enough to hear you call my name.

I cannot help but smile as I poke my head out and inform you that, “I’m gonna get cha.” Your smile matches mine as you let out a string of giggles and start running to the other side of the yard, away from the tall trees and songbirds. I still haven’t moved from behind the tree because I cannot stop staring at you. Your running stride has improved greatly but there is still an uneasiness with every step. The potential for toppling is great, even though I know the recovery will be swift.

I finally step out from behind the tree, happy to return to soft warm grass. It’s the middle of a summer that was filled with equal amounts of rain and sun. Providing lush lawns, full gardens, and bright flowerbeds. Requiring twice weekly mowing sessions and every other day weeding adventures. But not today, no, today is a day for running. For giggles.

You turn around just in time to see me gaining on you. Your mouth is open wide in awe, a mouth filled with almost every baby tooth. You switch directions causing your light blonde curls to flop and jump with each step. Except the ones closest to your face, which are covered in sunscreen and stuck in place.

You take a couple more steps in the new direction, aware that I am slowly moving behind you, giving you time to get ahead. This morning you refused to wear pants because it was too hot. Therefore, your short, chunky legs are covered in SPF 50 streaks. Your lower half is adorning brand new polar bear undies you picked out yourself.

It’s a relief to finally have you potty trained, but it brings to light how quickly three years pass. How big and smart and loving you have become. How full of life and mischief. This will be our last full year together before you start school. Before I return to work. Before morning workout sessions are no longer games of tag in the yard.

Out of the corner of my eye, Mixie stands up and starts wagging her tag. As an 8-year-old German Shepard, she typically cannot keep up with us full time. But it appears as though she’s found some energy to burn. She leaps off the deck and heads in your direction. You notice her quickly and right before she gets to you, you spread your arms out wide and squeal her name.

She stops just short of knocking you over, something only recently learned and mastered. You wrap your arms around her brown and black neck, while pushing your face into her fur. You close your green, perfectly almond shaped eyes, and feel her heartbeat against yours. Moments later, Mixie steps back. You release your embrace and look at her expectedly. She gives you a kiss on the cheek and starts running in a circle. I start moving towards you both with my arms stretched out and my fingers spread, ready to tickle whoever I catch first.

Giggles surround all of us as you throw your head back and start shuffling forward again. Mixie is jumping and running alongside, giving you gentle guidance to allow you to keep running straight. As I reach the point where you and Mixie had been standing, I notice the tan floppy hat which had started on your head when we left the house. I reach down to grab it, surprised I hadn’t realized you’d been carrying it this entire time.

As the sun continues to shine down, I am grateful you have kept on the long sleeved, dark blue, sun shirt, with white seams, that I wrestled you into this morning. It covers your perfectly round belly that gets butterfly kisses after bath time every day.

Your chubby hands are poking out of the sleeves and I can just barely see the tiny fat rolls at your wrist. Each day they get smaller and smaller. I kiss them as often as I can. I know your short and swollen fingers are rolled into fists right now because that’s how you’ve always run. Such determination to be faster than any person or animal around.

After a few more sprints, your steps start getting less frequent and more off balance. I slow to a much steadier walk and eventual a pause. Mixie starts to corral you into smaller and smaller patches of grass.   

You finally plop yourself down with faithful Mixie standing guard. Your hand on her back as you watch me approaching. I smile wide and you mimic me. I place your floppy hat next to you. Taking a mental picture, I hope to hold on to these moments for longer than the fleeting time that they seem to exist in. I sit down on the grass in front of you and pet Mixie’s head. She takes this as a passing of the baton and returns to the shady porch.

You look at me eagerly. I smile wider and pull you into my lap. It gets a little big harder to do that every year, but I hope to continue to hold you in my lap until I no longer can. I wrap my arms around your tiny frame. And smell your head that now smells more like your big boy shampoo rather than your infant head smell. I close my eyes, as a tear rolls down my cheek, I whisper, “Don’t ever grow up.”