Day's end has come and my boy sheds layers of clothing and energy. His five o'clock spurt of adrenalin has passed and as the sun dips down behind the treeline, he asks to be tucked into bed. The little body that once pushed that big yellow dump truck down the hall and those hands that drummed on my dishes and furniture and those eyebrows that wiggled up and down when he was in trouble, are plum-tuckered. Every waking minute has been used up with activity and as I cocoon his three year-old torso into puffy covers, he wraps his warm arms around my neck and kisses my cheek over and over. I smile as I remember how he had walked by and noticed me in my room earlier today and said, "You're cute, Mommy."I stroke his thick, brush-cut as he repeats the same made up prayer he prays every night and I think about our conversation in the van on the way home. He was the only one running errands with me and I slowed down for a red light. Suddenly a very disturbed voice called out from the middle seat, "Mommy, don't stop! Roads are for races!". I laughed and he wasn't too pleased so I explained why I had braked. He was quiet for a few minutes and then retorted, "Oh, why do we have to have stoplights?"
A sleepy boy turns his head toward the window and snuggles deeper. He bids me goodnight and closes his eyes. Tomorrow is another day and we'll commence all this racing again. I lean in and press my lips to his gently pulsing temple and thank the Father that I get to experience life through the eyes of a boy-child.
