the end of PDO

We left him there in September, his cheeks wet and our prayers whispered.

 Last fall.

I picked him up this morning, after the last session of Parent's Day Out.  I found him - shoes on the wrong feet, sand stuck to sweaty cheeks, bright paint splashed on his shirt - wearing a smile that stretched from the mountains to the sea. 

This spring.

So much can change in one year.  So much.  Especially this year, especially for him.

Last fall he had an impressive vocabulary, but now?  Now he talks all.day.long.  He makes keen observations, but he mostly asks questions.
Our washing machine was on one wall and now it's very tall in a different place.  Can I push the button on it?  Let's count the buttons.  That is Celia's big bed, but I don't know where is her little bed.  Oh yes, that bed will make the other little girl feel better, what is the other little girl's name?  What letter starts with octopus?  R-o-c-k-t, that spells rocket.  I can spell dragon, too.  Dragon starts like Daddy.  Where is Daddy?  Let's go to his work.  Why not?  Did you see that big green bug?  Are my berries ready yet?  How long is a few weeks?  Whose birthday is next month?  How old will she be?  How old is Tollie?  Zero, how many is zero?  How many lightning bugs are in the sky?

I don’t know.  I find myself saying that a lot lately. I love that he asks, and I don’t mind admitting. Through repeating, though, I’ve found that it’s not simply appropriate in practical terms, but as a bigger, existential truth. I don’t know.

But about school this year?  Maybe I should have known he'd be just fine.
JEB