William and I went for a walk together the other day.  Just the two of us.

He rode his scooter, but slowed down so I could keep up with him.

I treasure these moments and the mundane conversation that goes along with them.

He looked at me seriously.

“Mom,” he said, “I want you to know there are a few things I’ll never do.”

“Like what?” I said.


“That’s good.  What else?”

“I never want to drink drugs.”

(I love his innocence.  Its’ days are numbered, though.)

“Anything else, Son?”

“Nothing that I can think of.”

“What about tattoos?  Will you ever get a tattoo?”

“Only a good one, Mom.”

“Oh?  What is a ‘good tattoo’?”

 . . . . pause . . .

“You know, like, ‘I love Mom’ or something.”

Bless his little heart.  Now, how am I supposed to protest a tattoo when he wants to make it about me?!