The Imp comes to me, all fresh from the shower and little boy clean, looking for a hug. I gather him into my arms and lift him onto my lap. He's so gangly now, all legs and elbows and accidentally banging his head into my chin when he comes in for a hug.
I marvel at this child who just keeps growing, which is a ridiculous thing to say, because of course he keeps growing. That's what children do. I know that, intellectually, but I still struggle to understand on a cellular level that this being who once tucked in under one arm to breastfeed now spills out off my lap and onto the floor when he leans into me. Other developments, like language and socialization and his quirky sense of humour have nowhere near as much impact on me as the sheer undeniable size of this boy.
As he walks away from me, the hallway light shines on six inches of bare leg and ankle where once a bath towel dragged on the floor.
This post was written as part of Just Write from Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary.