For The Someday Book

In the last two days, B has started to use the phrase, “talk ’bout stuff.” Yesterday morning, he awoke and climbed into my bed so we could “talk ’bout stuff.” Then he told me a bunch of random stories about preschool and about our cats. Last night, when I was trying to put him to sleep, he wouldn’t let me pray or sing lullabies because he wanted to “talk ’bout stuff.” More random stories and observations about preschool and cats followed. I wanted to be strict and firm and urge him to go to bed in timely way, but I was powerless in the face of his irresistible cuteness.  This morning, it was more of the same. He wanted to stay in the car instead of going to preschool so that we could keep “talking ’bout stuff.”

I couldn’t say no. The day will come, far too soon, when “talking ’bout stuff” with his mother will be the last thing he wants to do. How long can I enjoy this privilege? Three more years? Five? Ten? Every time we “talk ’bout stuff,” I feel both the joyous delight of the conversation and the poignant pang of its fleeting nature.