My 4-year-old Thomas rose early this morning and didn't even say, "Good morning." He is now past the stage of climbing into bed with us in the wee hours of dawn, and I suppose that's a milestone of sorts (considering he's my last child), but it's a bittersweet one, nonetheless. I have loved our warm and fuzzy mornings ... And then there's that dichotomy: you can't wait for your kids to grow up and give you just a wee bit more time for yourself, but when they go ahead and grow, you miss their tinier selves. No matter. I am four-times blessed to be a parent, and I hope you feel the same way I do: that being one is the greatest gift there could ever be.

But back to Thomas. He got up early this morning in his cowboy jammies, flicked on his light since his blinds were still closed and crouched down on the floor to return to his masterpiece. Last night he began building the most beautiful "fun park" I've ever seen. And he's not even been to Disneyworld -- I don't know the origins of his work. Maybe we'll get to Orlando this year now that I no longer have a child in diapers, but I make no promises. I only know that Thomas's idea was born out of an attempt to sort out his feelings.

He had been trying to juggle a soccer ball in the backyard. With his dad watching, he couldn't get his little legs to behave the way his mind wanted them to. It was just too darned hard. With tears of frustration streaming down his face, he came running into the house, declaring soccer "Stupid!" and Dad "More stupid!" and everything "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" Making dinner nearby, I didn't say a word. I've learned to let these things run their courses and that, at a moment like this, he was his own worst enemy.

He prowled around aimlessly for a bit, then like an older boy, he leaned sidelong against the large window by the kitchen table, arms crossed at his chest, and doggedly watched his older sister deftly juggle her own ball. He wanted to do that, too, but his little body wouldn't allow it.

Pushing away from the window and not even looking my way, he stomped down the hall to his room where he remained for a good 30 minutes. I could hear blocks clanking in his room. Next thing I knew, he was before me, eyes bright, face happy.

"Mom! Come see!" he crooned.

"Dinner's almost ready, Tommy," I said, taking hot chicken from the oven.

"Mom! Come see!" he demanded. Dinner could wait.

And there in his small, blue room was his masterpiece. Blocks, pirates, plastic fish of all kinds, a stepping stool with soldiers covering it, a plastic island, a large wooden boat, a giant dinosaur, a worn-out Weeble town playset and the evidence of an imagination driving full-steam ahead.

"Whoa! This is what you've been doing in here?!" I said, laughing, sitting down for a second and admiring his creation. He nodded, his body proud and tall. "It's beautiful!" I said, and he explained to me all the different parts and what people did when they got to his "play world."

He had done a complete 180 from his former self.

Later, I thought about what had happened ... how he had kind of healed himself. He had worked out his feelings much like a painter might on a canvas.

For some reason I wondered then how a little boy named Walter Disney might have discovered his vision. Had he once been playing on the floor with an eclectic mix of childhood odds and ends? Did he show it to his mother? I hope so. And I hope she was thrilled. I bet she was.