|My nephew in his train costume on Halloween. He only wore it long enough for photos. Now, in November, he won't take it off.|
You pick up your nephew from his warm gingerbread house of a preschool on a Thursday afternoon.
“Chewy!” he cries.
He grips you as if you’re rescuing him from a concentration camp.
Seven hours ago, he greeted the children and teachers of this same sanctuary with “good morning,” “hi,” “good morning,” smiling and waving to the left and right as if he was on a parade route.
“Bye, Mom,” he’d said in his eye-rolling teenager voice, letting her know it would be swell if she’d leave him there already.
Now he says, “Bye bye, school. All done, school,” and runs toward the exit gate.