My Real Life

There’s a boy I know.

He’s a pretty serious guy, most of the time.

But his dry wit has his Dad and I in stitches, when he lets it out.

He doesn’t do anything half way, and in everything he does, he shines.

Along with not doing anything half way is the way he feels things.

So deeply that he doesn’t always know what to do with them.

And that makes it tough to be him.

But goodness, I love this child.

He’s busy every second.

When we are outside, we are tossing a football, kicking a soccer ball, playing hockey, having a catch.

When we are inside, we can’t just sit and watch tv.

While we watch, we’re still having a catch, playing indoor hockey, because, unlike the Brady’s, if we didn’t play ball in this house, he would explode from the pent up energy.

He’s so handsome, and he has no idea.

It’s quite charming, actually.

He wants to be with me every second.

So, wherever I am, he is. And the result is that I know him better than he knows himself.

I know his moods, can predict his thoughts before he says them, and know when he needs some hugs before he thinks to ask.

He’s a snuggle bug, and he’s my night-time reading partner.  (Not because he wants to read, but because he has to, but I’ll take it.)

And it’s in those moments, at the end of the day, when we’re snuggled up, sharing parts of our books with each other, and I inhale the distinct boy-smell from the top of his closely cropped hair, that I remember that he’s trying…he’s always trying.

I hope he knows…really, deep down knows, how very much I love him.

Because I love him…so ridiculously much.

And today, he’s 10.