Early for pick-up, I land in the first space in the lot in view of the morning preschool room.
Handing a paper to blonde hair and pigtails, he moves over one seat for more markers, runs to settle in for story time and tilts his head that way that makes his hair cover one eyebrow.
He is the most active of the bunch, he kicks and flips, shouldering his sisters for space.
Three years, almost four, we spent nearly every meal, every nap, every bedtime story, together. I know the inhale of his morning, the teetering off the chair of his lunch and the bouncing into bed of his night. Sending him off to school seemed impossible.
Will he be tall like his dad? Sensitive surrounded by sisters? A momma’s boy? I can’t imagine him here, just yet.
I see him from twenty feet, maybe more, long legs and lanky arms, my eyes and his dad’s everything else.
Singing the goodbye song, stomping through notes, noodle necklace swinging from his chest, his head never searches the window.
There is so much time to think and I envision my first little boy. I dream of his ears, his toes, his first cry. Outside of me.
They are bounding through the door, he turns the corner on this, his last day of preschool. I marvel at the change this short year has made in my sensitive little man. Squeezing his hand to mine, I cover his cheek with kisses. He wipes them off, gallops away to hug his teacher goodbye and zips his schoolbag.
Outside of me.
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