Frozen in time on glossy parchment, a three year old boy stands in the park one summer afternoon, sunshine smile wreathed in auburn curls, one arm held high, the other on his hip above a fat brown leather belt, Curious George dances in white cloth bubbles over soft navy corduroy jeans. 

We brought this framed photograph home last night, a gift from his aunt.

I loved my son dearly back then, though more easily when he was sound asleep, eyes closed, breathing evenly, brown hair pressed to his sweaty cheek. In slumnber my just-past-babyhood son was perfect.  Every difficult hour melted and each nap, each night, I resolved to do better, be more patient, more creative.  Mercifully, time passes and boys and thier mothers learn to dance with the love living in their limbs and grow out of useless reactions to resistance.

Now he's a skinny ten year old.  My son and I laugh like any two people being witty. I look forward to his outburst of understanding, song of delight, a break from constant consideration of the physical world; he is the nonstop, serious studier of matter, reactions, relationships between objects. I get dizzy trying to keep up with his endless stream of discoveries. I often carefully let him know I don't understand, but appreciate his strong mind.

Last night he placed the photo sideways on a high decorative shelf. I take this as evidence of how he sees the world; very much as a little boy mostly unconcerned with inconsequential societal expectations. Still, I know he's hurtling toward the invisible transition to manhood.