Pink Smoothie

I love that he still holds a glass with two hands. With grubby, bitten fingernails.
I love that if I ask if he'd like a pink smoothie, he feels obliged to say no. If I make him a pink smoothie without asking, he'll gulp it down.
I love that he still skips and twirls. And smells of Lynx Africa.

I love his innate self-confidence and that he hasn't fallen into the bear pit of thinking it's not cool to be clever. I love his feisty fragility and his need to prove himself.

My little mirror.