Making Tracks
It usually happens at night, when we’re snuggling in his bed before I tell him goodnight.

He whispers to me very sweetly, “Mommy, make your tracks….please make your tracks for me.” This is usually followed by a delighted giggle from him when I comply.

But you’re wondering, I know. What are my tracks?
Answer: what happens when I scrunch up my forehead.

I give you Exhibit A here in attempt for me to prove to myself that I’m not entirely vain:

Yick, yick, yick. I apologize to eveyone…for making you see that.

Oh, how he likes to run those little fingers over my “tracks”.

But this isn’t the only time he’s been interested in my skin. When he was barely 2 years old he would occasionally come over to me, and with the air of a scientist doing serious research, flip my arms back and forth to see the non-freckled (inside) versus the freckled (outside).

Actually, now that I think about it, he’s been interested in skin stuff for a really long time. Do you know what he has always called the puckered fingers that you have after a bath…you know, these?

He calls them castles. Now, if you blur your eyes can you see what he means?

Now all I have to do is divert him from his expressed future occupation of fireman to dermatologist. I figure that he can be one in 26 or so years. By then he’ll need to really help his mama and her tracks. Because the thing about tracks is that they just keep going, you know.