I counted yesterday. I think there have been 9 months of your life when you have NOT worn a baseball cap. You wear it when you sleep, Son. When I see you in my head (and in my heart), your face is shaded by a brim and your too-long hair is sticking out the back. And you’re throwing something.
Lately, I find myself split right down the middle with you. Half of me begs time to speed up. Please, I pray. Please let it be 5 years later. Send this child to school. Save my walls from the screwdrivers, the pens, the sticks, the flying Playmobil helicopters. Give him other friends to play with who will hit him back and chase him down and tie him up. I cannot see over the weeds and I am afraid I will be lost forever in here. Send help now.
The other half of me begs time to stand still. Please, I pray. Please let me sit here a little longer with my boy, who silently snuggles up closer on the couch and interlaces his chubby fingers with mine. Please let me hear, “Me wuf Mom” and be asked to jump on the trampoline forever and ever. Let me always hear this child pray at dinner and breakdance to Mumford and Sons. Let me walk into my bedroom and find you standing at my bed driving your matchbox cars over my pillows and under my covers.
The tension here is harder than I thought. You bring out 2 extremes in me… full-blown rage and absolute, total, smitten-ness.
You drop nails all over the driveway.
You stand on Abby for no good reason at all.
You are violent when you are hungry.
You are the loudest thing I’ve ever encountered.
But you are also the best air-kisser, the best trampoline-er, the best wordsmith in this house. No doubt. Truly, deep-down, a sweetheart with epic potential as a hurdler.You have the greatest giggle when caught or tickled, and you know how to work a power drill.
I just love you, that’s all. You make me crazy, but I love you.
And you’re getting tall.
And I love you.
I wuf you.