Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Last week Cedar turned three. I took him to the farmers' market, even though we go every Wednesday anyway--because he likes it, and I like it, and it worked. Sometimes we listen to music. Sometimes we buy berries. Sometimes we go to the park. Sometimes, we look through the bars of the carousel and watch the kids ride.
This time, maybe because it was his birthday, or maybe just because he's getting along in years, he marched me right over to the Delta Breeze and told me he wanted a ride. And instead of backing away from the aid as she turned around to greet him, or hiding behind my legs and wrapping himself in my skirt, he smiled, took the girl's hand, and let mine go. And he let her lead him.
He rode three times: a worm with a hat, a frog in mid leap, and a black Pegasus with a mane that was pink. He rode, and flirted with the girls, and talked to his neighbor, and managed somehow to appear normal and well-adjusted. I, on the other hand, stood around the rim, calling his name. I poked my camera through the bars for pictures, confessed, breathless, to other parents that it was his first time, and pranced, giggling and shouting hi as he passed.
This morning he said to me, "Maybe when I grow up, I will be an angel." I had him repeat this just to make sure.
"Mmm, maybeee," I said, nodding.
He looked out the window as we drove, and few minutes he said, "I will have wings." And with another pause, he added, "When you drive around, you will see my flying."
This is how it has been. This whirl. This blur. This odd, centered focus. And we're all getting older, thinking of the day we'll grow up, and making plans for wings.