All About Arizona--But Not Really

Around here, fourth-grade social studies is Arizona history. The kids prepare a program about the native tribes, the Spanish explorers and missionaries, and George Hunt, the eccentric first governor of our great state (see "him" on the bottom right?)

They sing songs and make fun of saguaro cactus and not shoveling sunshine.  It's pretty fun to watch.

Micah was in that sea of faces.  Can you find him?

Micah is right on the edge of big changes--the big changes that come from no longer being a kid to becoming a tween.  He will still hold my hand sometimes (unlike Heidi who broke my heart when she was only eight).  He still wants me to read to him at bedtime, even though he is a voracious reader himself.  He still needs help brushing his teeth occasionally, and he still gives me hugs and kisses when I ask.

Two experiences with him recently:

The TV was set to HULU  and had gone into rest mode with dozens of cool pictures cycling across the screen.  Micah stopped in front of it and exclaimed, "MOM!! How did you get that cool picture of the bear and the fish?  That's AWESOME!" 

I laughed a little and explained that those were stock photos from professional photographers.  He just shrugged and moved on.

Another example: We were having Family Home Evening a few weeks ago, and I was telling him about my Grandma Tucker's beautiful singing voice.  He looked at me and asked, "So, that must be why you sing so beautifully."

I laughed loudly and sarcastically and said, "Um, no.  I don't sing well." My reaction took him a little aback. "Yes you do, Mom."  He just shrugged and moved on.

As I was going to sleep that night, I thought about these two experiences.  At nine years old, he still thinks I'm a beautiful singer and a world-class photographer.  At nine years old, he still thinks I'm . . . perfect.  My little boy still thinks I can do anything.  Soon enough, those childhood perceptions will  dissolve into teenage misconceptions that "Mom doesn't know ANYTHING." 

I fell asleep that night, grateful for my little boy, who still sees me through the rose-colored glasses of childhood.