If I were a poet, I would write a poem about the bottom of Noah's rain boots. His boots are navy blue, but the bottoms are a beautiful sunshiny yellow, and (I realize this is corny) they seem to represent the part of him that is still a little boy.
Noah is 6 and a half, and I've already started thinking of him as a seven year old. It's a little heartbreaking actually. He doesn't want me to hug or kiss him goodbye at school in case his friends see. It's all about Star Wars and Bakugan and battling and constant (I mean constant) random noises, mostly blaster and gunfire. Sigh.
But yesterday I picked him up from school by myself as Marc was home to look after the girls. It was a melty afternoon, but there was still lots of ice. As we were walking to the van, Noah was sliding on the ice and splashing in the puddles a few feet ahead of me. He was dressed all in dark colours, green jacket, black toque, navy ski pants, navy boots. The only exception was the bottom of his boots, this beautiful yellow that matched his little boy joy at splashing and sliding and falling.
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