If only.

Tonight, after a heartbreaking crying session because he couldn't get his "stupid hand" to write the letters the correct way, The Boy dropped this one on me.

"Mommy, I need to tell you something. You know how you walk me in to school and take me to my classroom? Well, I'm going to have you walk me in when I'm in first and second and third and fourth and fifth and sixth and seventh and eighth and ninth and tenth and eleventh and twelfth grade."

I just hugged him and told him that was fine, but if he changed his mind, I wouldn't be mad.

(I couldn't help but smile and feel slightly sick at the visual: Taller than me, peach fuzz moustache, God-forbid-a huge messy curly mop of hair, saggy pants, and his hand in mine as we walk up the steps.)

I think most of his "less than stellar" behavior lately has been from stress. Kindergarten stress. He is learning how to read, but not quite as fast as he thinks he should. And it bugs the heck out of him that he doesn't quite have the fine motor skills to easily write all his numbers and letters. He can do it, but it's a struggle sometimes.

Aaah, the life of a first baby of two Type A parents.