I have the best boy in the world.
This is the dream, kids. This is the fairy tale. This is what it looks like when, as a young person with no responsibilities, you envision what life will be like when you’re a grown-up with kids. The fantasy is a little kid who looks like you (check) in cozy flannel jammies (check) and soft, freshly washed hair (check), burrowing into your neck (check) as you comfort him back to sleep (check.) What’s not to love?
Never mind that I lost my cool with him after the bath because he tossed his socks over the edge of the bed (twice) when I wanted to put them on him. Never mind that he wanted to hang off the door jamb to the car like Bob the Builder does when I had to pee and had my arms full of stuff. Never mind that he stood crying in the middle of the farmer’s market, clutching his sample piece of artisan bread, refusing to follow me to the car while most of my small town watched.
Never mind all of that. Because right now, in the middle of a Thursday night, my little boy smells like orange shampoo and the tops of his ears are warm and pink and his mouth hangs open in the tiniest little perfect pout and he is safe and he is soft and he is sleeping with his knees drawn up and his fists tucked under his chin. So, never mind all the rest of it because it’s this moment that I’m marking tonight.