Behind us was a man sitting with his son who must have been 8 or 9 years old. He was as enthusiastic as a kid can be about baseball. I don't think there was even a moment during the game when he wasn't commentating on the rules or the players or the line up or the play action or the hot dogs or his new mitt - purchased for the occasion. His dad sat with him and commented every once in a while if the boy asked a question, but mostly focused on enjoying the game with his giddy companion.
It reminded me that someday, when he is older, we will have the fortune of attending a baseball game with our son. He will not always be 21 months. He will not always throw himself on the floor in protest of our doing anything he disagrees with. He will not always take our care and love for granted...though it might take longer than 8 or 9 years to get there.
Little G will not always be little.
I spend quite a lot of time on this blog writing about my struggles with my son. I know that things will get better while some things get worse. But I need to make a promise to myself to remember every day that he will never be this age again. It is so incredibly hard to remember that when I am faced with my thirtieth tantrum of the afternoon...and so easy to revel in the fact that some day he will grow out of all of this.
But some day, he will grow out of all of this.
So I am going to try to make a more concentrated effort to enjoy this life with my beautiful, challenging, kind hearted, spirited, dare devilish, trusting, loving, little companion.