I am tired and you are teething.
It is a lethal combination.
“You win!” I exclaim in frustration.
(Well, really no one wins.)
I slip out the back door and walk just far enough that I can barely hear your cries.
Though it is nearly 10, I am still jammied up.
So are you. And your brother.
No need to get dressed today.
We have no where to go.
The wind blows up the end of my nightgown
And I lie down on the driveway.
The warmth of the sun begins to defrost my demeanor.
I tell myself that I will miss this one day.
And I will, I know.
The naps and the cuddles.
The giggles and sighs.
The top of your head resting on my cheek.
Even the tiny, sticky hands.
And the touching-touching-touching.
(OH! With the touching!!!!)
And, oh yes, even the ear piercing squeals of excitement.
I will miss them all.
But I cannot imagine missing the sound of cries.
Even as I speak it though, I wonder if it is true.
Your cries signify (or at least should signify) that you need me.
I thrive on being needed, being wanted.
And no one is more needed or wanted than Mama.
So I pull myself up from the drive and slip inside the house.
I quietly peek into your brother’s room and find you both engrossed in a toy laptop.
(Why do they make toys that are so looooooud?)
You are fine – save the occasional post-sob sniffle – until you see me.
But when you turn your eyes on me, you let out the smallest whimper.
And turn towards me with arms stretched wide.
With your head on my shoulder,
You sniff rhythmically to hold back the tears.
And as much as I don’t think I’ll miss the cries,
I will most certainly miss this.