Walking on the Wocks

Each day we take Valerie to school, we pass a little border of rocks, about eight feet in length, along the path from the parking lot to the playground. Sometimes we travel past at a nice pace, sometimes at a near run, depending how smoothly the morning routine has gone.

Each morning I head back to the car carrying Andrew (at thirty-three pounds, he still prefers "uppie" and I oblige because it won't be long before he'll really be too big for "uppie," or-sniff, sniff--not want me to carry him anymore). But as we get to the rocks he always says, "Walk on da wocks!"

Some days, this is just fine. I hold his hand and help him maneuver the border until we get to a big flat one at the end where he always promptly sits down and says, "What shall we do?!"

Other days, usually depending on how smoothly the morning routine has gone, I'm not in the mood for anything but getting back to the car.

But lately, I've found myself asking if he'd like to walk on the rocks as we approach them. Because I realize it won't be long before he'll be too big for "walking on da wocks."

Happy Mother's Day this Sunday!