I can’t deny what they say about a little boy and his mommy. There is an undeniable connection. I look into his blue eyes and see a version of myself looking back. The best version.
The funny thing about that is when I see myself in him the most. It’s when he comes in from outside on a fall day. His face covered in snot, which acts as an adhesive for the dirt. He suddenly has a full beard. When he slowly leans in to give me a sweet kiss, then spits in my face. When I discover his secret stash of dead stink bugs inside Cranky the Crane. When he finds a cocoon on the ground, stretches it out and puts it under his lip like a mustache. He’s a beautiful mess, kinda like me, his mom.
Only in my daydreams am I a super mom. In reality, I question myself at the end of each day. Did I love him enough, did I get too frustrated, did I follow through enough? Did I play with him enough? Did he watch too much TV? I read the books and emails about how to raise the most independent child, the happiest child, the intelligent child.
There are days I go to bed with a smile on my face and there are days I scream in my pillow. I have a son who can be difficult. Children are all difficult of course, but I started noticing a difference between how my son acted and how others’ acted as we started going to more birthday parties and events. He is sometimes out of control. Hyperactive is one way of describing it I guess. Tantrums, tears, and hours of negotiation mixed with confusion.
But he always pulls me back in. It’s the unexpected I love you’s. It’s the hilarious things he says. It’s his curiosity, sweet singing voice, and the way he rubs my face when he’s telling me something exciting. Despite the bad days, I’m his biggest fan. I would give my life for his, and I would have a bad day everyday as long as it meant I could be with my son.
He is my beacon of light. My savior. An expert at building blanket volcanoes and making mud muffins. He navigates an iPad better than me and eats a diet consisting of tuna fish and fruit snacks. While other kids at the park go down the slide, my boy scoops a handful of dirt, throws it in the air, and runs through it. The end result is what I call his spray tan. He tells me his boogers taste like candy, and I don’t even know sometimes when he gets out of the bath what exactly is floating in it. He is afraid of everything and fearless at the same time.
He fascinates me. This life we share fascinates me and inspires me. A journey that I can’t help but document, especially considering I now have two boys running wild.
I came across a saying about little boys that sums up my observations so far. It’s that a little boy likes the important things in life: