Grow Up

In the limp summer haze, he was a baby. When the golden rays tinged his complexion a dark hue, he seemed small.  Was it a trick of sunlight, or a trick of time?
This morning he went to school* a bright, polished boy, shining with cheer before even the sun was up.  Bouncing excitedly on his toes, his pink cheeks puffed into a grin so wide it looked to span the entire classroom.
The enrollment form asked what makes him unique, what makes him special.  I found it hard to stake the entirety of his persona on one thing.  In an instant he leaves me both exasperated and impressed.  His ingenuity, his enthusiasm, his perseverance, his energy, his tenderness, what isn't special?  Superlatives don't feel nearly super enough.

Many children are curious, but it flames in him, in his eyes, in the restless way they're often looking at the one place he cannot see.  Toddlers are at once sponges and parrots, but he is shockingly articulate, endearingly bright.  Maybe every parent's offspring does the same, but he steers my thoughts in the direction I need them to go.  The world is his oyster, and he makes it impossible not to be grabbed by the promise of another day. 

To his teachers, I say He is special, he is unique. You will see.
To him, I plead Grow up, small boy, grow up.  You will never outgrow my heart.

JEB
*school is used loosely, meaning Tuck is giving a once-a-week-for-two-hours Parent's Day Out program a shot 
And also, BSG, thank you for helping me think.