How old will you be when you no longer prefer falling asleep on my lap anymore?
How old when you stop creating outfits from two pairs of underwear, one spanky-panty, a plaid skirt and a polka-dot dress, all topped off with a fluffy tutu? Someday will you beg and plead and persuade and wheedle until I get you — Lord preserve me — designer jeans?
How old will I feel when I can’t toss you bodily into the air anymore? Will you feel the loss?
When will you leave the dining room spotless after a meal?
How long will it take before your iron faith in friendships — your dogged trust that every kid around you wants to be your bestie — will be shaken by some pathological queen bee? And how long will you take to recover from that?
Will you ever stop holding bugs?
How old will you be when you first decide to walk twenty steps ahead of me on our way into the movie theater, just in case you see someone you know?
I don’t really recall anything from my life when I was two and three quarters. How long will it be — will it ever be? — that you forget all the joy and growth you’re experiencing now?