The fourteen-year-old in me is rolling her eyes.
It’s because I realize, without a doubt, that I will tell my children I can’t sleep until I know you’re home! Why? Just because! Someday you’ll have your own, and you’ll understand!
Kids can’t possibly perceive how much parents have invested in them. How much tumult and mess and uproar and energy, and love – the most criminally overused, diluted word in all of history. I use it to express my passion for Irish cheese. It’s not sufficient anymore in regards to my son.
I knew this when I first saw two purple, slimy legs kicking like mad in an operating room, protesting examination amid cold plastic and bright lights.
I’ll go to the end of the earth for you.
I love the way he twiddles his belly button when he thinks we’re not looking.
I love how he joyously faceplants into a pile of cheerios and comes up with most of them stuck to his cheeks.
I love his droopy drawers.
I love the four seconds that immediately follow a tumble, during which time stands still. That flash of a moment in which his brain contemplates one of two responses: to wail in shock; or to shrug, grin and press on.
When we’re exasperated with each other, I put him in his crib to exhaust himself and come to his senses. And... is this normal? His yelling, the force of his determination - it cracks me up.
It fills me with some strange, nervous energy, gives me the giggles. Which he doesn't appreciate. So he empties his lungs, clears the air. Then he settles to the business at hand (emptying me) and we cuddle each other to sleep.