Skip to main content

Those four little words

Zippy and I have been cooped up together for three days while he recovers from a pretty nasty upper respiratory yuck. We have snuggled through 24 hours of fever. We have watched approximately 37 hours of Spongebob and 29 hours of Paw Patrol. We have wiped at least 2 gallons of snot. It's been a hella couple days! 

As he started to regain energy this evening, he also started driving me bananas. Finally, while I tried to clean up dishes and he insisted on spinning circles through the kitchen while shrieking some horrible toy commercial jingle, I told him he needed to go in the other room because I was losing patience. I spoke through clenched teeth the way my own mother did when we realized she was about to transform to Mrs. Hyde. Thank God he picked up the cues and retreated to the corner of the dining room. I breathed. Deeply. 

Still not sure what's at the center of the page, but I sure do like the text.
Three minutes later Zippy returned, coming up behind me as I loaded the dishwasher. "I told you I need a break!" I snapped, before turning around an looking into those giant eyes. He quietly presented me with this drawing and a big mushy kiss. "I really love you, mommy." And of course I choked back tears because if there's only one thing I know in all the whole big world, it's this: I ❤️ you Mom. 

This little boy pushes every one of my buttons, it's true. Most days I can barely keep up with him, physically and mentally. But at the end of every day, in the quiet space before we all fall asleep, there's nowhere better than huggled next to this child, his wiry wiggly body finally relaxed, his long eyelashes sheltering those big green eyes (remember when they sparkled bluer than topaz?), and all my hopes and dreams and wishes for him floating in the air around us. 


Angel babe

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A boy and his cat

Our backyard is a decent size and backs to woods. Every time a visitor steps onto our back deck, friend, family, and neighbor alike, we hear "What a yard! You need to get that kid a dog!" Apparently this is the natural progression here in Suburbia: house + yard + boy child + dog = happiness. Now, it's one thing to hear about our need of dog from friends or family who know us, but coming from neighbors and relative strangers it gets a bit old. My first response is always, Why do you think so? Which makes people hem and haw because they don't want to insult me by saying what's really on their minds: Because you're depriving that child of a human sibling , and he needs a friend . One problem: We're not dog people. I mean, we like other people's dogs, and I often think having a dog would be a major motivation to walk long distances regularly and get myself into shape. But a dog is like a toddler who will never grow up. They are needy, and they bark and poo...

Ottomania!

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about ottomans. A ridiculous amount of time, actually, given the number of other things I truly should focus my thoughts on. I find, though, that when the world outside gets scary (and scary is a truly relative term these days) I turn to online shopping for things I don't really need. Actually, it's more like online browsing; I rarely purchase. I spend hours searching for, oh, erasable colored gel pens or standing desks or all-natural curly-hair gel or the perfect black sweater. (Yes, these are things I've fixated on over this winter; I still haven't clicked "buy" nor settled on any of them.) This week, it's ottomans. By the way, my girl  BrenĂ©  Brown would call this behavior numbing . I'm okay with that. Because online browsing is way less detrimental (so far) than chain smoking, which is what I'd really like to do when the world is scary. It's a way to escape, to daydream, to focus on things tha...

Grown-up words and what to do about them

We know our children are little sponges who soak up all our words, actions, mannerisms. They are often parrots, but even more often they are fun house mirrors, amplifying and exaggerating our own idiosyncratic behaviors until we cringe, laugh, or hang our heads in shame. Yesterday while cleaning up his toys, Sweet Boy got frustrated trying to put one of his train pieces together. Instead of crying or raging like he would have a few weeks ago, he threw the toy down and yelled, "Oh, fuck it!" Oh. My. Lord. The air was sucked out of the room. We were suspended in time and space, frozen as our eyes met. I took a split second to consider my options: (1) Freak out and yell at him---scare him into never saying it again; (2) Ask him to repeat what he said, because maybe I heard it wrong and I don't want to overreact; (3) Ask where he heard that word, stuff his mouth full of soap, then call the offending child's parent immediately (a la The Christmas Story ); (4) Ignore it so ...