Days of Zane and Roses
He is only three. I treat him like he's older. Like he is the same age as his brother. I suppose this might be a good thing when it is all said and done, but it hardly seems fair now.
I hold him accountable with expectations that are probably hard enough for a six-year-old, let alone a child half that age.
He doesn't make it any easier. He is smart and talkative and funny. He spends his day with children twice his age and rather than standing out he blends in. His height is the lone giveaway.
But in the night when I kiss him goodnight and he covers himself with an army of stuffed animals, a flashlight and a large bouncy ball, just to ward off the dark, he becomes my little boy- the way he is meant to be. I stand there between him and his fears, adding to his wall even as it tears at mine.
He is only three and I need to stop to smell his roses.