he bursts into tears when I come to pick him up from preschool.
“But I want to play with my friends,” he wails.
Once home, we sit together on the rocker.
His head still fits tucked under my chin,
though his long lean legs spill off my lap and down the sides of the chair.
Seated at dinner he calls out,
“I’m a baby, Momma! Feed me!”
His perfect pronunciation and ability to pretend proving this a lie.
At times his game grates.
I have grown used to eating my meals with both hands,
and am not eager to return (even in fantasy)
to the days of eating cold spaghetti left-handed,
while spooning endless tiny bites of pureed peas into a rosebud mouth.
Yet at other times I am intensely grateful
that we can both go back,
if only for a moment,
to the days when all of him fit neatly in my lap,
and his chubby dimpled thighs kicked joyfully at my approach.