Sweetness in the shape of a boy

"No, baby. That one's too steep for you."

He was so excited that I had agreed to go riding with him. He jumped up and punched the air and quickly collected his helmet and bounced around as I gathered my own things. As I rode behind him yesterday through the winding, overgrown trails, I watched those legs, so little, pedaling and braking and maneuvering his beloved blue and silver bike with such a natural grace and uncommon understanding of the unfamiliar earth beneath his wheels. He followed his Uncle Bub faithfully, never complaining when the weeds lashed his small round face. Paved trails? He would have none of them. He wanted the dirt and rocks and roots and grasses taller than his own little self. He looked at those steep drops with a quiet fire in his eyes and on his warm red cheeks. Right now, he has no fear. And today, he begged for more.

While his Daddy guided him down the dusty trails in this insufferable heat, my brother and I ran on the safety of level pavement. He reminded me to let Wes take those drops and not try to instill my own fear in him...."You can't ride scared...that's when you fall." And I know he's right. Over-thinking leads to accidents....at least it does on a mountain bike. I have a few scars (mental and physical) to prove it. But Wes doesn't seem to possess the self-doubt that plagues his mother. He sees what other, far older riders can do and sees no reason why he can't do the same. I hope he always carries with him that confidence.

I still need to teach him not to turn around and look for me but to call out to me instead. But he has this innate need to look out for me. He always has. As a baby, when he would cry and I would pick him up, he would start patting my back with his tiny hand just as I was doing the same to him. It was somehow comforting to him to return the favor. He still does that to this day. He cries and instinctively comforts me at the same time.

No fear. And yet the tenderest heart a boy can have. I need to let him take those drops.....but I will always be right there to cheer for him when he dominates that downhill, or scoop him up when he falls....pat his back, or if he needs to, let him pat mine.

"You hold my hand and sing to yourself...."

Sticky hand print on the bathroom mirror.... I love seeing it so I don't wipe it off for days. Not because I'm lazy....okay, not entirely because I'm lazy. I just love the smallness of his hands. 4 years old. So much they have learned to do and so much they have yet to grasp.

Those dimples and bands of baby flesh he had for those 5 seconds that he was chubby. The dirt that I scrape from under his nails every night, only to do it again the next. The crooked bent of that one finger that looks identical to my brother's. He still has those 4 dimples on each hand....the last marks of babyhood....the last reminders that they are the same hands that grasped my finger so tightly the very first time I held him in the delivery room. But now they are fading...fast.

Yesterday, I gave my son a wheelbarrow ride.....down the middle of our street...running. Classy. (Quick! Who wants me to be their neighbor?! Line forms to the right.) I wanted to do it because I still can, while he's still small enough.

I can't ever go back, but I can go forward. And hopefully he won't remember those long years when I was here but not present. I'm here now. I'm present now. And I'm loving every minute of it.