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He’s 12 , soon to be 13 in just a matter of weeks . He rolls sleepily out of the bed on this Saturday morning still bleary-eyed. His wild, dark ,tangled Irish curls twisted this way and that. He drags his comforter from the bed and pulls himself , blanket , body and all, onto me on the oversized sofa. He’s taller than me now, but doesn’t realize. He smells of sleep and the puppy who warms his feet at night. The cartoons are playing on the television but he’s not watching them, he’s closed his eyes again, as I make tiny circles on his back like I did when he was just a toddler. I close my eyes too, and wonder. Will this be the last Saturday I snuggle with my wild Irish boy? Will Saturday next he suddenly be grown and decide that oversized sofas , and moms and the smell of mornings are just “not cool”? Oh , how I hang on to this moment! But there is no freezing it. The smell vanishes when he decides that his still growing body needs its morning Cheerios. I feel disoriented for a few brief seconds when he stands , the transformation from the toddler in my mind to the half grown man child going to the kitchen. I realize that in just a few more brief seconds , he will be on his own sofa , with his own wild Irish child, enjoying the smell of his own morning.

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