Memories Are Made of This

As I walked downstairs in a distracted rush this morning—e-mails piling up on my Blackberry and late for work AGAIN—my eight year-old son, who was sitting at the kitchen counter happily eating his cereal, opened his arms and beamed at me. It stopped me in my tracks. And I thought to myself, realistically speaking, how much longer will Boy Wonder be so glad to see me that he spontaneously throws his arms out for a hug? One year? Six months? Two weeks?

So instead of racing out the door and throwing myself in the car as planned, I walked over to his small stripey pajama-clad self and hugged him close. “How are you, buddy?” I whispered to the top of his head. He closed his eyes in contentment. “Never better,” he whispered back.

That kid.