Yesterday, I got home from work to a hysterical 3 year old who hurt his pinky toe “so badly, Mommy! Owww!” I swear this child has cornered the market on drama queen-dom. It’s unreal, the way he bats his absurdly long eyelashes and checks his audience to make sure he’s inspiring empathy of the truest kind.
If he wasn’t so adorable, I’d want to flick him.
So, I make nice to his toe. I give it a kiss and I hug him tight and wipe his tears away and then I watch my five year old saunter over. He looks deep into his brother’s eyes, kisses him on the lips, and says, “c’mon, it’s time for dinner.”
OH MY GOD I COULD NOT POSSIBLY MAKE THIS STUFF UP.
I smile and sink deep into the couch. I close my eyes for a minute. I try to rally for the dinner/bath/bed routine. I channel contentedness. Ooom. Ooom. I hear the laughter of little monkeys. And then…
A 35lb body hurls through the air and slams right into mine. It’s all I can do not to yell out, “WHAT THE HELL, DUDE?” I open my eyes and there he is again. His cheeks still tear-stained. His brown eyes overflowing with the kind of cute you wanna eat. He plops his hand on my belly. It jiggles. Some of us can’t figure out how to keep exercise in the mix these days.
“Why is your tummy like that, Mommy?”
Really? Not only is he jiggling my fat, but he wants to discuss it?
Then he starts poking my thighs. They too jiggle.
“Mommy, why does your leg do that?”
My contentedness slips away. Well, actually, it runs for dear life. I look at this child who I grew in my jiggly belly. This child I nourished from deep within my body. This child who leeched calcium away from my left hip for 20 months (yeah, I grew him AND I breastfed him) leaving me incapacitated and in excrutiating pain and I say cheerfully “it’s all your fault honey. Ok. Bedtime!”
Yeah, it was 6:45. Go ahead. Say something. Do it. I’m phat. I’ll kick your ass.