Bumps, bruises, scrapes. Sticky, gooey, freshly bathed but dirty in an instant. Noisy, brimming with sound effects , friendly.
In all the world, there is nothing quite like a two year old boy. Curiosity killed the cat but, undoubtedly, it was the little boy who skinned, dissected and brought it to his mommy as a gift.
It was something I couldn't have understood before I saw a flickering heart beat and the " is that what I think it is?" on an ultra sound monitor.
" Yeah, yeah." I thought as friends shared their stories about boys with me. "This ' untamable creature', the little boy, surely only exists in the stories of tired mothers." Aside from the obvious, what could possible be so different? I had managed to raise a perfectly polite, well behaved little girl. Judging by her, I was a very capable mother.
That was during my " know it all " phase. The point in time I refer to as B.S. ( before son, in case you had any other ideas).
Here I am, in A.S. - after son. I am covered in boogers that were picked and swiped across my shirt by a blond haired, blue eyed, cuter than anything , little boy who smiled as he did it. I am ankle deep in train tracks, said boy has informed me that it's the track of a diesel locomotive coupled up with a box car and a gondola car.He knows these things. He knows all things. At least in his mind." Don't touch it, Mom. It's only for me!" his scratchy voice tells me.
Hours earlier, suddenly struck by a tummy virus, I locked myself in the bathroom and upon my exit found Mason sitting on my bed covered in sawdust- like cracker bits. " I was 'fursty" " he said. To him it was a perfectly logical reason to create such a mess while his mother was indisposed of. Minutes later, I'd beckoned the dog who did a mediocre job cleaning up . I'd flicked on Nick Jr., resettled my boy and drifted into a half sleep. I could hear the boy rummaging in his sister's room. The note on the door ( "No Bruthers" ) and the constant admonishment from my eldest told me this was not ok, and understandably so. We had just finished cleaning the messiest room I'd ever seen . Half the mess belonged to her brother. The room was off limits when his sister wasn't home to approve of his presence. The nausea won out, though, and I stayed in bed waiting, knowing that what would inevitably forced me to get up at any moment would be far worse than actually losing the contents of my stomach ( again).
And it was.
On cue, Mason galloped in wearing nothing but a thick body suit of his sister's best ( smelliest) lotion. " I'm here! " he cheered, sporting his best smile, hoping to fend off any disciplinary actions that might result from this latest event. He was carrying a clock that, in it's normal place, perched mid-way up the wall of his sister's bedroom. " See? It's time to get up." He plunked the clock onto my night stand and used a squishy, lotion covered hand to slide my glasses first into my eye and then behind my ears. A film of lotion that reeked of " velvet rose" coated my face. " I'm up!" I say. " I'm fursty!" he replies.
And the day continued on like this. His dinner fed to a dog who had been coaxed onto his chair. A bath filled with an entire bottle of shampoo followed by an attempt to pee into the now empty bottle. Urine. Just all the the urine. Always the urine.
Every day is different but the same. So many words spent - distracting, detailing, redirecting, warding off tantrums, explaining, calming, soothing.....
And every night is the same- a fuzzy blond head rested on my chest, heavy with exhaustion from the day, requests songs that don't exist but that I make up any way. " You my mine" he tells me before I tuck him into bed, legs only, and check to be sure there are no cats hiding under his bed. Finally ,I ping him one last kiss before I close the door . I breath a heavy sigh and start to unwind but missing him already. Life in the A. S. is messy and busy and exhausting....but between this wild haired boy and his sweeter than pie sister, I have never felt so loved.
