Yesterday, Luke turned 18 months old. Big boy. We celebrated with a trip to the toy store where we acquired a very nice shiny set of cooking pans, just the right size for making dinner for Bear and Mr. Ray. Afterwards we went to my favorite coffee shop and split a snickerdoodle. Luke sat in his own chair, with his little sneakered feet not even long enough to dangle over the edge. He munched his half of the cookie slowly, looking around at the birds and passersby on the sidewalk. A Unitrans bus went by.
“Whoa!” he said.
“Whoa.” I agreed. “That’s a bus. Bus.”
“Bssssss.”
“Right. Red bus.”
“Bssssss.”
I drank my tea (“Hot,” he reminded me) and we shared our cookie in the sunshine. When our cookie was done and Luke had thoroughly inspected the bag it had come in several times to be sure there weren’t any more, we moved on.
It’s nice having a constant companion to share cookies with in the sunshine.
Eighteen months means more than cookies. Luke is now officially old enough for the toddler program at the preschool. Big boy. I took him down for his first day of school this morning. I spoke with the director while he inspected alphabet puzzles.
“Y!” he showed me.
“Yes. The letter ‘Y’. Very good.” I told him.
He showed an older boy the letter “Y.” He was less impressed.
“Okay, Luke. Mommy’s going now. Give me a big hug.”
Luke obliged me with a big hug.
I took a big breath and stepped out the door of the classroom. Luke looked at the kids and toys, and waved his hand, “Bye.” Then he toddled after me into the hallway, with a plastic sheep clasped in one of his pudgy little hands.
“No, no, honey. You’re going to stay here and play with the kids. Mommy will come back at lunchtime.”
He showed me the sheep.
“Yes. Sheep. Baaaa.”
“Baaaa,” he replied.
His teacher and I walked him back to the room with the farm animals and alphabet letters and big boys and girls. I touched his feathery little head, took a big gulp of air, and left briskly.
No tears... from Luke.
Big boy.
Small mommy.