The Boy

I went upstairs and found my boy in a quiet moment.

He was reading.

His not-so-little hand propped on his chin. His eyelashes. His shirt. His intent gaze on his book. I love everything about this picture of this boy.

He stopped reading and we started chatting. And that’s when it hit me.

This boy is turning ten this year. Major gulp. I can’t think about that too much just yet. But as he’s getting older, I’m coming to the realization that his stories aren’t really mine to tell anymore. I’m going to have to start running things by him to make sure he’s okay with what I write about him. Not that he’s ever minded the things I’ve written, but he’s starting to have more of an opinion and asking me not to mention certain things. This is new territory we’re navigating together.

But despite my many, many mistakes with him, he still tells me everything on his mind. Pretty much. And for that I thank the Lord. Truly.

And I love his expressions while he’s telling me what’s currently on his mind.

I love each of our kids more than I could ever put in to words, but sometimes, I so wish I could have parented them one at a time so that I could really just focus on each one and enjoy them as they are.  And I hate that I still sometimes get overwhelmed by them all together all at once. I feel like I miss these tiny precious moments with them far too often.

That barely there dimple in his cheek? Gets me every time.

His opinion on matters pertaining to persons of the opposite gender? He sticks with “non-opinion”. I’m good with that.

But oh man. Trying to get through homework with him. All I can say is one or both of us might not make it this year.

Then he went back to reading.

He wanted to read a part to me that he thought was funny.

I love his sense of humor.

This is my boy.

And I love him so, so much.