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?!