It was a surprise for me. The suit, I mean. I had stayed home with the little three all afternoon and everyone else was out galavanting. Daddy needed some work clothes and my parents, who love an adventure, hauled him and Little T to a clothing store in a slightly sketchy Miami neighborhood. They texted me photos all afternoon, my oldest son had spotted a hummer limousine and was allowed a peek inside. They looked at cars, shopped, had ice cream and investigated the monorail or sky train as my Thomas nicknamed it.

The suit remained a secret for nearly twenty four hours and that in itself is quite a tell tale sign. My biggest boy, my firstborn, the child that shares my exact eye color has never kept a secret from me before, though perhaps I’ve just been unaware. I don’t think so though. A gray suit, a three piece one of unknown fabric, not too fancy, but worn proudly by the boy with the pink and blue braces. Are any of our children who we expect? I think not, no more than a life that follows the path of wishful longing.

Our oldest son has surprised me in so many ways, the toddler that cried with the too loud singing at storytime, the boy who doesn’t remember a time he wasn’t a big brother, the only child in our family that has ever had parents all to himself. He is kind and lovely and competitive and a sore loser and longs to be the best and the brightest and the fastest. He’s learning through a boy named Amos though that all those things aren’t as tangible or significant as he once thought. I find him quite perfect myself.