Hi blog! Whatchu doin' blog?
Thus begins every conversational exchange in our home lately. He asks us at least hourly what we are doing, whether we are futzing with dinner preparations or sitting right next to him playing trains. It is a chipper and pleasant little question, one that never fails to make us laugh.
Does he not seem gigantic and kid-like? Good freaking heavens.
This week we discovered that our boy has been running quite the scam on his day care teachers. One mentioned to MIL that Beck wasn't feeding himself at lunch.
"Oh, he was feeling a little tired today. Maybe..."
"No, never. He never feeds himself. We always feed him when he has something that needs a utensil. We thought that just must be what you do."
ACK ACK ACK!!!! We were mistaken for THOSE PARENTS! Holy crap.
Now I will admit to shoveling some food in when we are at the dregs of dinner after a long day when he is looking glassy-eyed and busy processing whatever educational programming I had running in order to prepare said dinner. It happens every so often. But by and large, the boy feeds himself. The boy can use a fork and spoon just. fine.
Admittedly, he sometimes comes up with more creative solutions.
So today Wes marched in and told them to stop feeding him, that if he was hungry enough he would use the spoon, and he and the head teacher both talked to Beck about it and we waited anxiously for an update. And MIL reported that... they fed him again. They said he just seemed so hungry and would happily eat from them and they didn't want him to be hungry.
He has them wrapped around his freaking adorable finger. Ugh.
It occurred to me yesterday, as I was rolling around amidst my pillows with my boy, that I am, in fact, a mother. It's one of those facts that comes along to wallop me in the head once in a while. It's huge and scary and still totally unbelievable to me more than two years into this endeavor. And sweet and stunning and overwhelmingly beautiful.
As I watched him giggle and hide his stuffed animals under his father's pillow (to be discovered by Wes at bedtime, naturally), I had a huge rush of sensory memory. Remember what it felt like to be in your parents' bed? I hope I am not the only one who associated that place with comfort and safety and utter peace. My mother's bed was so incredibly key to my stability that I believe there were months where I went directly there upon arriving home from school, did my homework there, watched TV there, and often stayed there until she returned from work and sometimes on into cheese-and-crackers-dinners and sleep. If I had a dreaded teenaged babysitter (a thing I detested so strongly that my mother sometimes let me stay alone as early as age seven - now that seems crazy but I LOVED it. Because I HATED babysitters), I spent the entire evening in my mother's bed with her bedroom door closed tight against the hated intruder. It was by far my favorite place in her house.
So I was struck by this rush of feeling. And I suddenly thought -
Maybe Beck feels that way right now. About MY BED. Because I am HIS MOTHER.
And I swear that I almost passed out from the shock of it. Me? A source of safety and security and peace for another human being? A very small and cute one, at that?
If I am doing it right, I suppose so.
