You'll be my breath should I grow old.

During the formative years of my three sons, sometimes a preacher man would call my house and our conversations would inevitably begin by him asking:

"Who's winning? The big people or the little people?".

To which I would answer:

"The little people, of course."
Just being honest.

My little Man Child is the "Rowdy Maker". He is a climbing thing, always on the move. He goes directly from crawling to running and worrying me to death. He's there, playing with a pull toy on the grass next to you but, if you linger a half second too long with the neighborhood gossip, you may turn to find his fat, little legs carrying his giant, curious head down the street and across the way. Diapered and barefoot.

He runs circles around the rest at the pool, fearlessly flinging himself into the deep end so that I must invest in a shirted intertube and hope for the best or stay away altogether.

He shimmies up trees as tall as our roof and then down again.

He does it all in record time because he will not be left behind. Walking, running, talking, swimming, bike riding.

He does not care for directions but prefers to find his own way. The instructions for the Star Wars Lego are mere suggestions. For another. His "set ups" are elaborate stages for tiny plastic figures to stretch their imaginations.

A cat adopts him and takes up residence under his bed in order to have her kittens. I paint a mural of a green grey cat with an upside down pink heart for a nose on his wall in honor of his fuzzy new love.

When he becomes a big brother, he sees a weighty responsibility. His tenderness glows outstanding while trailing a high maintenance crowd of bigger boys and baby girl.

He takes it all in stride because he is a winner.