Evidence of aging.

Today my big boy is six, halfway done with kindergarten and loathe to be called "Little Man."

"Mama!" he says, "I'm a big man. Huge!"

I told him he has to deal with it until he's taller than I am, which I think means that we're going to be having this discussion constantly until he passes me up. I can handle it.

He won a bike at school yesterday (from a drawing as part of the school's reading program) and has amassed enough legos that I'm beginning to fear for my life*. His two middle bottom teeth are growing in crooked--I expected no less given his dental heritage--and, don't tell him, but I still prefer his hair combed to spiky.

In spite of all this evidence of aging, he still reaches for my hand every time we go somewhere together. It warms my weary mother heart.

*There's a good chance that I could one day drown in a sea of legos** by being in the wrong place (his room) at the wrong time (essentially any time other than the 3.5 minutes following the weekly cleaning). (Pray for me.)


**I know that lego purists insist that they always be called "lego" and never "legos," but I vastly prefer reverse snobbery to the regular kind. So: I thumb my nose at you, Lego Snobs everywhere.