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“I can’t resist a man in uniform!” My Grandmother would say, with a twinkle in her eye and a playful shrug of her shoulder.  She meant my grandfather.  The sailor who picked up the handbag she dropped on a busy San Fransisco street.  The man who came home to her.  The one who was her everything.  I have to agree… There is something irresistible about a man in uniform.  But the uniform I love is tiny, and there’s a very small man wearing it.  I get weak in the knees when you wear your Cub Scout uniform.  Your hat that pushes your little ears out just a bit.  The way your shirt tail never will stay tucked in. It does something to me.  Makes me want to gather you into my arms and feel your soft cheek against mine.  You’re getting dressed for your first den meeting of the year, and your buttons are all buttoned in the wrong button holes.  I think you fished dirty socks out of the hamper to wear.  You can’t quite get your neckerchief on right.  I can’t resist a man in uniform either.

“Mama, I want to be one.” He said, his short arms clasped around my neck. “Really? Why?” I was surprised. That isn’t something you often hear from the youngest in a big family, they always want to be as big as their siblings. He usually does a pretty good job of keeping up with his brothers. “I want to be one. So I can be a baby. So we can be together always. So I can do it all over again.” Going to school this year has been great, but it’s been hard on both of us too. Every day when he comes home from school we go up to his bedroom, crawl under the covers, and snuggle in his little twin bed. We sing songs, and talk about his day. For a few minutes it’s just the two of us. While his brothers are raiding the snacks, playing, running wild. He and I are closeted together, just like we used to be.