Up, Up, and Away

The thin, silky fabric of his polyester Iron Man suit has been stretched thin lately, the poorly-sewn hems creeping steadily up his ankles and birdlike wrists. He doesn't notice how quickly his thin legs have spouted, or how comically small his jaunty green frog rain boots have become.

Watching him play, I see all of this, see how his body is changing, see my baby disappearing and a boy—a wonderful, creative, joyful boy—taking his place. And I'm proud, fiercely proud.

Yet.

More and more often, I find myself wishing I could reach through the fabric of time and hold him back, to keep his hands plump and his mind full of innocent, wondering questions. I want him to always be young enough to ask me plainly for "more love, mom," as he snuggles next to me, and to spin wild fantasies of a world made of jellybeans.


It's time to retire the Iron Man suit.

He's ready for the next size.