big kid

It's a challenge to speak to the way he seems young and old at the same time.  And a challenge to help him navigate this blurry, big kid stage of personhood.
Standing there in Star Wars pajama pants, legs crossed, eyes glued to the screen, he vacillates between games and Google searches.  He goes from earning new cars in Smashy Road to memorizing statistics about fossil fuel use in different countries, from laughing at Siri's response to a silly question to rolling his eyes out loud at whatever I've asked of him.
He is messy and impulsive, organized and methodic, confused and confident.  
He draws comics and designs robots, emerging from his imagination for food and hydration.  He pulls his hoodie over his hair and grumbles about practicing piano music, retreating into my outstretched arms without a bit of reluctance, with every remnant of his childhood.
For his birthday he wants a Bunsen burner.  It's like he's somewhere halfway between the Lego and whiskey crowd, somewhere that makes sitting on my lap so four score, and heading off to college suddenly imaginable.
I watch him traverse this middle zone, an utterly perplexing place for all of us, and see his future exploding before him.
I want to keep him warm and safe, and he feels ready to play with fire.