Independence Day

My almost-three-year-old is becoming the most independent of little boys, which is a trait I am trying to encourage, yet fastly regretting as time goes by. While it's delightful to wake in the morning to the sound of pitter-pattering feet, it's strange to find the effects of a preschooler left to his own devices. A half-peeled banana by the computer. A box of Cheerios on the living room floor. My cell phone, covered in some unknown sticky substance and the tiny fingerprints of the guilty.

This is his home now, not just ours. I have found Stride Rites lined up in his closet with little dirty socks tucked inside. Toothpaste glopped all over the bathroom counter. Baby Teddy tucked into bed. He is owning his world, taking up more than just a part of it, and reminding us every day of his ever-evolving presence.

I look forward to watching him grow and learn, and know that one day a tall, smiling man will be standing in my kitchen with a deep voice and broad shoulders. But in my heart he will always be my boy.