Hawkeye Thoughts

His feet are filthy.

As in, gross dirty.  Those weird little lines of crud that only a pair of Keens can outline so distinctly.

Those ragged little beasts are currently snuggled up against mine as I lie in bed tip tap typing away.

I should move my feet before my size eights are contaminated by his size fives, but I don’t actually care all that much.

His eyelashes are longer than mine on even a good blinc mascara morning.

This boy is sensitive and funny and quick witted and changing even as I write this post.

Bergen still loves affection.  He’s a cuddler.  A hand holder.  A back scratcher.

He avoids math and baths like I avoid black olives and dark alleys.

He struggles with interrupting and wants to be excused from the table as soon as he is finished devouring his food regardless of what else is happening.

He’s strong and never minds carrying a table to the next room or lending a helping hand to me while I bake or walking with me down the driveway to take out the trash.

He’s beautiful, you know.

I am so fortunate that he calls me momma.  That I am his and he is mine in this can’t be taken away from either of us kind of bond.

This is my boy.

On Mother’s Day in his Sunday School class he and the other kids designed flower pots with seeds in them for their mothers.

When he showed me his gift I noticed a single word he had written in Sharpie across the rim of the terra cotta flower pot.

Nevertheless.

This is a boy who is watching.

He is listening when I don’t know it.  And when I don’t think he is.  And maybe even when I ask him to.

He and I – we are figuring out this world and he trusts me and I am so honored (and terrified) of that faith flowing from one small frail human to another small frail human.