Wednesday, June 8, 2016


Yesterday after managing to rein in my impatience at two dramatic eruptions of childish dissatisfaction, A came outside to the porch where I was sitting reading.  He sat down on the rocking chair to pick at the healing cut on the bottom of his big toe (achieved at the beach in Lincoln City two weekends ago).

"Mom, you're really good at momming."

"I don't feel that way a lot of the time.  What made you say that?"

"I don't know.  You're just good at momming."

These words are a blessing I will hold dear for a long time.

Tonight, he and his best friend O walked with me to the library.  O is, thus far, less of a reader than A who devoured all seven Harry Potter novels in less than six months.  On the walk back home, A walked and read while O picked at plants and flowers, tasting most of them.  I told A that he should put the book away since his friend was with him, but O's response was, "Why? We went on a walk to the library and now he's reading.  I don't care."  These two boys get each other.

We stopped by the cherry tree I knew about that was in full production.  O scampered up and shook branches to get the fruit to fall down.  I stood in the street to guard my son from passing cars as he collected the cherries that fell, but what happened was the opposite.  A grabbed my wrist and said, "Mom, watch out, there's cars" and pulled me rather forcefully towards the curb.  He felt grown.  He held on to my wrist and continued leaning down to pick up over-ripe cherries, making sure I didn't wander again into the street.

I caught a glimpse of the future, the way future, my kid taking care to keep me safe.  It was weird and endearing and a comfort.  Apparently he too is good at momming.

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