Elena called me out on something the other day. It was towards the end of the day, and I was trying to get dinner ready with both kids either attached to my body or directly under my feet. I can't remember exactly what Eli was doing, but I'm sure it fell under the category of the 3 D's: Dangerous, Destructive, or Downright bothersome. I took notice, let out a long sigh, and said, "Son."
"I love how you say that to him all the time, mama." She was all smiles and giggles about it, and as I made a mental note of it I realized that I do say it. A lot.
I say it when he eats the bubbles instead of blowing them. When I find him walking around the house, licking my deodorant. When he turns on my flat iron and tries to self-administer 3rd degree burns. When he pretends like he's eating his vegetables and then slowly regurgitates them back onto the table. When I see him walking around with his hands behind his back (an odd habit he's picked up that makes him look like a pensive old man), cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.
"Son. What do you have in your mouth?" And he slowly spits out a handful of tee-niny choking hazards into my hand. He looks up sweetly.
"Son. Spit out everything." And he spits one more thing. I keep thinking of Mouth in The Goonies, spitting out that last gem.
I wish you could hear the tone of that one word. Son. It's equal parts exasperation, consternation, and admiration. He drives me batty at times, I'm amazed at what he gets himself into, yet I can't help but be amused at his exploits.
I found my first gray hair the other day. I've been know to pour myself a glass of wine at 4:45 p.m. I think I know why.
Because I have a son.
And I'm very, very glad.
