I wish I could recall the conversations word for word at times. Like last night, laying in bed with Tukey, wonderboy of age five, who twisted the pieces of my hair around his finger, then grabbed my face and squished it in his chub hands.
Want me to count the hairs on my head? he asked.
That would take forever I said.
I can tell you their names.
You name the hairs on your head? I asked.
And then a quiet moment of thought before he felt his scalp.
This is Jimmy.
And this one's name is Bob.
And then he moves his hand over a bit, and introduces me to another hair on his head.
This is, um... Freddie.
Nice to meet you Jimmy, Bob and Freddie I say. I didn't ask him why there were no girl hairs on his head, cuz come on, that would just be plain silly. He's a boy, after all.
Next, he tells me that each hair on his head has a color name too.
This one is orange, and here's red. This one is blue, and this one is black. This one is skin color, and this one is purple. This one is magenta!
Magenta! That's a big color word for a five-year old.
We lay there, he and I, snuggled with his Sesame Street blanket that I will never get rid of, and his Mickey Mouse and Goofy blanket that will remain with his Grover blankie until they are simply bits of thread and memories.
Because, when he's no longer naming the hairs on his head, or giving them each an individual color, I'll be able to at least crawl into his bed, smell him on his blankets, wish for these days to freeze in time, and cry.
Yep, I will sob for these moments. And wish they'd never leave me.