Proud

You wouldn’t have had any difficulty picking him out, if you’d been there. He was the kid who clutched a book securely with one hand through the entire Christmas pageant.

He was also the kid who held his battery-operated “candle” up to one eye instead of raising it aloft, scowling at it thoughtfully as he examined the way the light burst from the centre of the bulb.

He was the kid who turned his tambourine into a frame, holding it up to his neighbours’ faces so that they were captured in the red plastic semi-circle.

He was the kid who was once too shy to leave for Sunday School without clutching his mother’s hand, yet today managed to move on and off the stage six different times without crying, panicking, or breaking away from the group.

He was the kid who held up the two “L’s” in H-O-LL-Y, watching his neighbours carefully to ensure that he raised and lowered his letters in perfect synchronization.

He was the kid whose face lit up when his sister walked onstage with three other two-year-olds, clutching a rope and wearing a black plastic bowler hat. He was the kid who laughed supportively, though without comprehension, when the Mayor gestured to the toddlers saying, “I’m here with my Press Corp.”

He was the kid who broke into a shy, delighted grin when the children’s hip-hop routine was met with a roar of applause.

He was the kid whose mother couldn’t stop brushing away happy tears.


That's my boy.