My little Man

My son, Brighton, has become a little man. An opinionated- plaid shorts wearing- asking for Mohawks-ordering around my houseful of little people- man. He leaves the toilet seat up after he has managed to pee all over it.  He bargains with me over everything, somehow having come to the realization that arguing won’t fix it, so five year old logic sure will. These sentences start with “well…..” and I have begun to preemptively strike them from the air with an actual (very mom-like) chopping motion and yell “no ‘well’ - just go do it!”  He drags his feet everywhere we go so I have to walk behind him periodically poking him in the back and saying “God gave you feet. Use them properly please.” He finds rocks everywhere, and pockets them, only to be discovered upon my descent into the rattling chaos that is the dryer on high. When I ask him to do something he tentatively toes the line of defiance by saying very quietly “maybe………… no?” To which I reply “Maybe YES!” When he walks in a door he freezes, causing me and everything I am holding (eight bags, a case of soda, a purse, a backpack, a very large dog on a leash, etc., usually all at once) to crash directly into him and scatter across the floor. When he gets in trouble at school he never remembers what happened, he just… forgot.

And upon re-reading all of this I realize I have become a Mom. Not a mommy of a toddler, not a mother of an infant, but a full-blown cliché-ridden Mom. I tell him to come in or go out, don’t leave the door open, put the seat down, buckle up, brush his hair, put his plates in the sink, scrape them off first! I brush teeth, kiss things better, give big huge hugs, and promise dessert, which I always deliver. I seem to always have a band-aid, sunscreen, lotion, extra socks, and probably a full change of clothes if I look hard enough. My purse has become a Mary Poppins extravaganza of never-ending answers to requests. I found a juice box in there yesterday! If you are lucky enough to sit in the backseat of my car once I move the booster seat, I usually have something to throw over the detritus of leftover lunches scattered all over the seat.

The best part of being a Mom to this particular little man? When he comes into my room and says “mommy you sure look pretty!” Or when he tells me he likes my new wallet. When I tell him it’s the same one I’ve had for years he replies he still likes it. Or when he bear hugs me, or comes into my room in the morning to tell me its okay if I sleep a little longer. Most of all…. When he hugs me and rests his head on my shoulder and says “I love you Mommy.” Because in those moments the rocks, and the dirt, and the fingerprints don’t matter so much anymore.