He says “kisses” and points to his cheek. I kiss him. He says “kisses” and points to the other cheek, and again I kiss. He says “kisses” and points to his forehead, and I kiss once more. A two year old can stall bedtime like no other! But I have to admit, I willingly complied. It won’t be forever that my kisses will comfort and my hugs will protect. He won’t lazily fall asleep stroking the silk liner of his blankie. He won’t tiptoe down the stairs in his footie pajamas – the ones with the doggie on the front. His footsteps creak the old wooden staircase slowly until we say his name – at which point the patter becomes quick and a giggle slips out as he dives back into bed. The Farmer and I exchange looks, holding back giggles of our own. He’s two and he’s a pistol. He throws his toys and throws fits, and throws his head back when he’s mad. But he cuddles close when he’s tired, and he smiles fierce when he tries to please and I love that little boy – round belly and chubby toes, my second son.
I think about who he is and who he will become, and will I have eyes to see him as a man today – to guide this man into the form God shaped his heart into? Not as my son – something to mold, possess and display, but as a creation from the hands of God, a display of His glory, His wonder, His will.
The floorboard squeaks and I turn to see his footie pajamas at his feet, and his hands stroking his bare belly in the light of the kitchen and as I turn and catch his eyes, he laughs a deep laugh, and moves – encouraging me to chase him, and I do, and I will chase him for all the days I can.