And then I scream. Because he makes me scream!

He, with the round blue eyes, glassy windows into a kaleidoscope brain that spins faster than the planet on which he walks. On which he runs. Jumps, cartwheels across, headstands upon, bulldozes through. 

He, who finds the earth beneath pressed palms even more beautiful upside down than right side up.

He, who roars awake with the sun and lives each moment with vigor that reverberates off every corner of my life. I feel his echo even when he sleeps, as the walls sigh in relief and shed his footprints, their cool concrete no match for his toes. 

He, who fills every space I make for him. 

He, who runs his fingers, already rough like those of a man, upon every object they manage to find. 

He, who is five and happiness and stress and tendons and blood and mind and strength. 

He makes me scream. 

Because he is a tiny, dancing, spinning madman. And when I scream, he throws his blond head backward and laughs uncontrollably to hide his pain and I seethe and tremble and wonder if I will ever understand this wild, beautiful child or if he will always remain a being I cannot reach. A stunning, wondrous mystery. 

When he’s at last exhausted, I lasso him with all the words I’ve been told to use and herd him into bed. I want to creep away on tiptoes lest my presence revive his senses. But I force myself to stay.

I tell him how much I love him. I spread my arms wide.

“More than this. More than all the universe,” I say. He smiles. He understands this love that has no limits. He’s never known limits. 

His long lashes flutter shut and I exhale. For the next 11 hours he is not in danger of harming himself or those around him. I pull the covers around him and I kiss his sunshine cheeks and watch his little body rise and fall peacefully.

In the stillness of night, I finally see him. A child whose potential stretches from here to the heavens. A tiny Picasso whom I beg, plead, and bribe every day to just do the color-by-number. Because if he does the color-by-number, the end result will be perfect. Perfect, perfect , perfect. I love perfect. And he knows that if he’s given a blank canvas he can create a masterpiece far more beautiful. So he crumples the color-by-number and throws it on the floor. And then I scream. Because he makes me scream!