As usual, it was nothing like I planned.

I'd showed up at Finn’s school, bright red soccer ball in the crook of my arm, ready for a little outing, just the two of us. Finn greets me like he always does, as though I’m a movie star and he’s a tourist on the Sunset Strip.

“Look, look everybody,” he yells, pointing to me wildly, “it’s my Mom! Look!”

Then he runs to me and jumps into my arms, trampling whatever toy or toddler might be in his way.

We walk over to the park and the whole way he’s calling out landmarks to me. Look at that, he says, Look at that, Mama. He is a running narrative, one that is actually running.

I love you Mama so much. Look at that bird Mama. Look at that bird. Look at that duck. That duck is sad. I am so sad for him. A squirrel, Mama. A SQUIRREL.

We sit underneath the tree while Finn marvels at the squirrel and then, just like that, we are fishing through tree limbs laid waste by last week’s storm. Within moments, Finn has us turned out in “wings” and we are butterflies, waving our tree limbs with their scraggly green fronds hanging, indeed wing-like. We are flying, Mama.

And I am behind him, following the leader, drafting off his enthusiasm. I realize the ball is in the duck pond, unreachable and we are already onto the next adventure, the swings where Finn will plead, higher, higher, higher and I will do my best to comply.