I love being a mom, especially now that all of my kids can feed and wipe themselves.
I love my three bigs. They are confident. Funny. When they visit, it’s a party.
I love my three mediums. They are in high school and they are emerging as people. It’s been fantastic to watch. They are gaining confidence in themselves and in their choices.
I love my two littles. Thomas is in seventh grade, David is in third.
Every single morning when I drop them off at Holy Spirit Catholic School, we do the “I love you, have a great day,” ritual.
Thomas gets out of the vehicle, waves to friends, saunters off.
But David? Oh my stars. Every single morning he gets out of the vehicle, shuts the door, turns towards school and he.runs.
No matter what time I drop them off, David runs.
No matter who is around him, David runs.
While mothers are walking their preschoolers into school, my baby becomes a galloping horse, running with all of the awkward grace of a skinny nine-year old.
His backpack, water bottle and lunch box fall into the rhythm of his gait.
He runs without a care in the world. He runs with focus and intensity and abandonment.
As I watch my baby boy, my last child, enter into school, all legs and elbows and silly grin, my heart catches. I know what is ahead of him. I know the changes that will occur, which must occur, in middle school. I know puberty. I know all about peer pressure and conformity, the need to fit in.
His running brings tears to my eyes every morning; I want to roll down the window and yell, “Run, Forrest, Run.”
Instead I whisper, “Run, David, Run.”
Run, youngest child of mine.
Run into your classroom, eyes brilliant and shining.
Run into life with your heart wide open. Run and never let others shut you down.
Never stop running.
Run with joy, my child. Run. Just run.
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