There is a picture of my son on our desktop right now; it is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. He is wearing a green striped shirt and has wrapped a green dishtowel around his neck as a cape. He wears a smile full of pure joy, his eyes wide open and unreserved, his enthusiasm right there on his sleeve. He is still innocent and free from guile, though worry does creep in now and again. He cries as if mortally wounded when he loses a game or race, and right now, everything from the climbing of stairs to the eating of food is a contest that must be won. I'm sure somehwere in his heart a part of him does bleed for these losses.
Recently, I have stopped letting him win. It's time, I say to myself, to have him learn how to lose, how to be a good sport, and how to shake off these percieved setbacks. I push him to grow beyond his heart, and that perhaps is not fair. Still, we deep breath and shake hands and say "good game" when things get rough, and we move on. Yet I know even now, this photo of my three year old dervish in green will be one I forever hold close. I'll remember this sweet make-believe moment that caught up his grin and remind myself, when he is older, that there were times when nothing else mattered except flying.
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