Saturday morning. I hear The Who whimpering himself awake, muffled through his bedroom door. I roll over and moan; it’s so early. I wait a minute, rub my eyes. Check the time and confirm that it is indeed So. Early. And just as I start fumbling around for my glasses and thinking about whether or not I have time to pee before his whimpers ramp up to an unbearable whine, I hear m* roll out of bed and make her way down the hall to him.

I listen:

She greets him with this sweet, completely authentic joy and he responds; I can almost hear the grin spreading across his face. No matter how tired she is — no matter how unrestorative her night’s sleep has been (the curse of a pervasive sleep disorder) she is always present for him. Always delighted to see him. He asks for cocoa and I half-expect her to shuttle him down the hall to me to bring him down and make it, but she doesn’t. “Sure,” she says brightly and they continue their chatty banter down the steps and into the kitchen.

Downstairs, she is more patient that I ever am as he insists on “helping” with the milk, the chocolate, the microwave, and the cup’s cover. I hear her brew her coffee once he’s sated. The spoon clinks against the inside of the blue pottery mug as she stirs in her creamer and he asks, “You havin’ your coffee, Mommy?” I doze back to sleep, listening to the two of them begin to discuss fire trucks.

When I open my eyes again, she is making train whistle noises and he is giggling. I close my eyes. When I open them again, she is reading to him from one of his library books. I sleep some more and when I wake, she has dragged in the trampoline from the porch and has pulled her chair up next to it. As he jumps, she holds his hands and laughs and laughs and it’s hard to tell from up here who is having more fun.

During the rest of the day, she will pull him into her lap and show him a seemingly endless stream of YouTube fire truck and construction vehicle videos on her little netbook. She will take him for a long, sweaty walk up to the playground. She will make him a grilled cheese just how he likes it and stand patiently by as he cuts the crusts off himself with his bright, plastic IKEA knife. She will not sigh when he wakes up cranky and early from his nap and will instead give him an empathetic hug and get him to stop crying more efficiently than I ever can. She will carry him downstairs, his head on her shoulder, and she will hold him on her lap until he’s fully awake.

After his bath, she will — as she does nearly every night — walk him down to his room and sing “Jingle Bells” and “Wheels on the Bus” and “Twinkle Twinkle” until he is ready to lay himself down and go to sleep. And he will — as he does every night — go to bed the luckiest kid in the world.





Happy Mommy’s Day, babe. Your boy and his Mama couldn’t ask for more.

2 thoughts on “Mommy.

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