At three it begins.
He turns from me as from a captor
one who he’s come to love, mind you
but also to disdain.
He is inconsistent in his affection,
reaching for me one minute,
snubbing me the next.
The promise of a cookie
holds less sway over him
and threats lose their power altogether.
When I turn off the T.V. he screams in protest,
holds his winged dragon up to my ear
and says, “I will make you die.”
Only last year his warm plump body
fit snugly into my arms.
Now he is long, leaner,
his pant legs always short.