Aiming high

After testing and sequences and bows and knife-hand strikes, he's a yellow belt now, my little boy.

The child who still says "odder" instead of "other." The one who laughs uncontrollably at iCarly but is still quite happy to absorb the sweetness-wrapped lessons of Franklin and Kipper and Berenstain Bears. The wee one who stops me mid-sentence in Ramona Quimby books to read words he recognizes and sometimes just keeps going and going until he's reading sentence after sentence, all while nestling his head under my chin. The kid who outgrew all of his jeans while they were in the laundry for a few days and glides confidently across the monkey bars but keeps believing kisses make scratches feel better and anxiously awaits a verrrrry tiny tooth fairy to slip under the door to his room.

Lil E, running fast and asking intensely spiritual questions and doing jump-side-kicks for a panel of Tae Kwon Do black belts without hesitation or concern, makes me weepy and giggly and astounded. It's not all easy. It's often exhausting. But there he is, walking that line between baby and big boy, and now he's wrapped up in a yellow belt. He's so proud and I'm busy snapping action shots, and we're both just loving this time.