Eyes Wide Open

We laid side by side on his bed.  I was rubbing his belly and trying to coax his wound-up little body to sleep for a much needed nap and he was telling me snippets and tales from his day at preschool. 
I cherish these quiet moment when he tells me things that pop into his head from his day.  When asked directly about school he offers little, but if I try to lull him to sleep the details of his two and a half hour adventure trickle out of his mouth and into my waiting ears.  I happily absorb his words, hold them to myself, and wonder at the world he has entered that does not include us.  At times I think he likes having something apart from us, something that is entirely his, that we hold no ownership of.  His burgeoning independence is both beautiful and heartbreaking.  I want so badly at times to keep him small forever, but I also love, more than anything, watching him blossom and grow.
I am brushing my fingers through his hair now and I gently request that he close his eyes and go to sleep.  "I can't close them, Mom," he says, "I have to keep my eyes open wide so I can see everything."   
He has grown so suddenly these past months.  Gone are all traces of baby; they have been replaced by long limbs and strong muscles.  Fingers that were once chubby with baby fat now have the ability to button, zipper, and snap, and are close to being able to tie shoes.  He wants to know everything, to try everything, to see everything.  He is at the wonderful age where children are ready to explore the possibility of the world beyond their family and yard, yet they want so badly to know that we still have their backs, we will still scoop them up and carry them down the stairs, and kiss away their hurts, and tell them endless bedtime stories until the possibility of a monster lurking beneath the bed is game rather than a nightmare.   
Finally, his words are a murmur instead of a torrent and his fingers relax.  His eyes flutter closed and he breathes in the even rhythm of deep sleep.  I watch his face until I am sure that he is off in a land of dreams and then I can see it: the baby that lurks within the boy.  There are the long eyelashes that brush his round baby cheeks, and there is the pouting little mouth that has always smiled, ever-so-slightly, while he dreams.  I check his hands and there, too, I find the dimples that mark his knuckles.  I feel silly to be relieved that these marks are still there, for surely he is growing up well and I am absolutely proud of the person he is.  I just wish, sometimes, that life came equipped with a pause button.