I'm not sure when it switched, but it happened some time since first grade started.
The glimpses. They switched.
I used to to see flashes of a teenaged Max, or a fleeting look at the man he will be. A smirk, a mannerism, a chuckle. I'd blink and they'd be gone, replaced again by my sweet boy, anything but a baby.
But now, it's the opposite.
The glimpses I catch now are of my toddler boy, in this gangly body made of knees and elbows and ever-darkening hair.
I still see those flashes of the future Mr. Porter; the grin that someone will someday fall head over heels for.
So now, those glimpses? Each one is precious. Max recently pinky-swore that he'd always let me give him kisses. He's held true to that so far, but for how much longer? How long until he runs off to join his classmates before I have a chance? Or even until he's walking himself to school, with no need for me?
Last week, as we walked across the blacktop at school, he walked with his best friend, J. I heard them laughing conspiratorially, and I glanced back to see them holding hands as they traipsed across the playground. (He doesn't just walk anywhere these days; he traipses and runs and skips and stomps, but never just walks.) But they weren't embarassed, no second thoughts, they were walking together, and so they were holding hands. Again, how much longer?
We're done with first grade now, onward and upward to second. I told him I wasn't ready for him to be a second grader, and he said “But Mommy, you have the whole summer to get used to it! Don't worry!”
The whole summer, huh?
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