Time Is Not on My Side Mr. Mick Jagger.

Time is not on my side, not it's not, no sir. I fought it hard. I landed a few punches, even surprised it with my left-handed ability. I masquerade as a "righty", but really I'm both! I'm a little bruised from this fight, a little worn down. What did Time do to me, you ask? Well, time is a sneaky, dirty dog. You know the kind. They slink around waiting for the right opportunity to steal food off your plate. They seem all docile and friendly because they're hunched down and meek-looking, but they've got shifty eyes and they're always watching. And waiting...

waiting to snatch away toddler-hood and replace it with boyhood. That's manhood looking over his shoulder there waiting to teach him about love and hate and loss and the world. Do you see it? I did this morning as I watched this guy walk into school for his first day of Pre-K4. 

In a few short weeks he'll be five, so he's the older guy in his class and that's how I surprised time. That was my sneaker left punch---a late August birthday that let me keep him home one more year.

And now it's time for the "next" thing and the "next" thing is good and right.

He was all abuzz with the happenings of his half-day at school. The three friends he's made, none of which he learned their name. Not an important detail when you're playing cops and sheriffs. The "next" thing was really good and he can't wait to go back. I can't wait for him either, not because I won't miss him or don't enjoy him, but because I see his joy, the pride in his step, the new sense of purpose and I'm excited for him even if I'm sad for me.

And then there's always this guy...

who can make anyone smile---even the scroogiest Scrooges! He's my bud, my fella, my trying so hard to be a big boy dude. His "next" thing is learning to use the toilet. Potty training is my favorite thing in raising children. I kid, I kid. I hate it and I'm sure my feelings translate somehow in some weird way like how people say animals can sense when you're afraid of them and then attack you. I think my boys know how much I dislike potty training and somehow it becomes much more difficult. 

James has successfully pooped and peed in the toilet on separate occasions and multiple times, but for every one time he's used the toilet, he's used his diaper ten times and usually right after he's gotten off the toilet.

I can safely say that changing a poop diaper is up on the list of things I really, really, really hate doing. For one, I don't do it well. I'm in a hurry and use way too many wipes, yet I still manage to soil my hands.

And let's be honest, when you soil your hands with someone else's waste, your only option is to cut your hand off. "If your right hand offends you, cut it off." (That's a loose paraphrase.) I walk around all day feeling as if at any moment I'm going to fall sick with E. Coli or some other awful infection that will cause me to vomit, which is equally detestable to me. I'd rather crawl through a pit of spiders and snakes than get a stomach virus. 

But I've evaded both E. Coli and the stomach virus, so I'll continue persevering in the potty training and doing the "next" thing.