Here is Elliot on Sunday, upon discovery that for an early birthday treat he is going to be attending the Laurie Berkner concert at the State Theater in just one hour. Pure unadulterated joy. He turns seven on Thursday, and while I am thrilled to celebrate his awesome-ness, I am also bracing myself for the motherhood melancholy that comes every October when I face Father Time and curse him for how quickly the moments pass since I have become a mother.
Tonight I took over one of Dan's bits of the bedtime rally - the reading in our bed together with Elliot. Elliot was reading away in one of his books, and I sat cuddled up knitting a simple doll blanket for a gift. Elliot says, "Hey Mom, can I do some of that?" I shrug and hand over the needles, wondering to myself how this will go, considering we haven't knit since he was first learning in London. The boy takes the needles and bam, bam, bam, bammity-bam, bam whips out eight stitches like he's channeling my Grandma Irene. Then he looks at me and says, "Mom, when are we going to learn to cast-off?"
Given this child's sensory integration struggles and occasional fine motor challenges, this knitting feat is a small miracle to me. Well done, son, well done.
I also had two moms from Elliot's class today tell me how their sons talk about how they like to play with Elliot. These are the moments I exhale and think, maybe, just maybe it's all going to be okay.