"I made this for you, Mommy!" my son exclaimed, handing me a bright ring of red, green, and white beads - a leftover Christmas ornament project I had saved for a rainy day.
I'd never seen him sit still for anything that didn't involve food or trucks.
His drawings are adorable, but cryptic. Big squares with scribbled wheels. Body-less people with big round empty eyes.
His craft projects or "wads full of junk glued together" are endearing.
And they are all lovely, in a "you're my offspring so I will treasure this odd looking thing and then secretly toss it out without you knowing because it scares me" sort of way.
But there he sat, his head bent over the table and his tiny fingers carefully slipping the beads onto the green wire, determined to make a discernible "something."
"It's beautiful. I want to wear it every day!" I told him as he anxiously watched me slip it onto my arm.
And I do.
Like the tightly knotted bands and garishly beaded bangles displayed proudly on the arms of moms before me - some with their Coach bags, others with their under eye bags, both wearing their gifts like a diamond tennis bracelet not caring if it matched anything on their body.
He'd strung it twice after his sister tried to help him and his creation crashed onto the floor, beads rolling in every direction. He picked them up completely unfazed, starting from scratch, restringing each bead and finally asking his dad to twist it closed.
"Do you love it?" he asked, twisting the beads around as he admired his handy work on my arm.
More than you know.