It’s true. If you decide to call me while my children are awake you are inevitably going to hear something that resembles this convo I had with my parents the other day:
“So I signed up for a color run. Yeah, it’s in — Go to the bathroom! — this city called Koln.”
The things we say as parents, right? A few sentences I know have escaped my mouth recently:
Do NOT walk up here without underwear on. The windows are open for god sakes!
No, you cannot lick the dog bone!
Stop eating your brother’s shoe!
Get your hands out of your pants!
I say a lot of stuff to my kids. Sometimes I feel like I am constantly redirecting, constantly explaining myself, constantly trying to be that voice of reason that my children have yet to acquire. All day long, sun up to sun down I am talking, commanding, repeating, etc. There are times when my baby is screaming and my six year old is trying to talk over it and the noise level reaches dangerous levels causing stress to boil over inside until I am spewing harshness from my mouth.
And then there are times I am silent.
I think these are my worst moments.
I am writing/blogging/reading doing things that don’t matter, in my zone, oblivious to all around me. It is usually when my baby is napping and it is finally quiet in the house. And although it is good for the mind and soul to have times like this when most hours of the day are filled with constant noise, it is not good for the mind and soul of a mother to ignore her child when he asks if he can sit with her.
“Can I sit with you, mommy?” That is all he asks…for the second time.
Not right now.
Not right now. Not. right. now. What?
I look up from my computer to meet those big blue eyes staring at me in earnest, piercing me right into the soul. All he wants, more than anything in this moment, is to sit by his mommy. And all I want is to aide in the progression of an impending case of carpal tunnel?
Of course you can sit with me. You can always sit with me.
So I close the computer and he climbs into my lap and I begin rocking back and forth to the point where he is kind of rocking for us (I love that he still does that at six). I kiss him and think about when he was tiny and could fit perfectly in the crook of my arm. When it took fifteen minutes just to walk, one wobbly foot after another, from the car door to the door of the daycare. When he used to lay down on my lap and giggle as I’d trace outlines of trees and balloons on his back with my finger. I thought about how blessed I am to have a boy who listens to me talk, command, and repeat myself all day long, and yet at the end of the day still wants to cuddle with me in my chair more than anything in the world.
Because someday he won’t want to sit with me anymore. Someday he will wipe my kisses off and shy away when I try to hug him in front of his friends. Someday he will want to cuddle with someone else. Someday he won’t be around here for me to sit next to.
But not today.
Today he is my baby boy. Today I am the one who comforts him after bad dreams. Today I am the one who he wants to snuggle with when the day is done. Today I am the one who he wants tucking him in bed at night.