A Mother’s Mush
I try not to go to him every time he cries at night. Sometimes the crying only lasts for a minute or two before he falls back to sleep. Sometimes it lasts longer and I find myself standing by his door fighting with myself on whether or not to go in. I’m a big believer in self-soothing, and since it’s worked for over 2 years I have no reason to deviate.
Then there are those nights when he quietly gets out of bed, goes to his door, and says through the door, “Momma.”
I’m awake in a flash and going to him. When I open the door, I am greeted by a tiny creature dressed in fleece footy pajamas with a blue blanket hanging from his mouth. Tiny arms are reaching up for me. I bend down and the tiny arms wrap around my neck. I pick him up and hold him for a minute, just standing in the doorway with his tiny form in my arms. His warm soft cheek presses against the side of my face. Little hands have found my hair and are lightly playing with it.
I walk him back over to his bed and lay him down.
“Sit, Momma.” He cries. I get in bed with him and pull the covers around us. I stretch my right arm out and he snuggles into the nook between my chest and arm. Tiny hands reach up and start playing with the button on my shirt. We both doze. He wakes up, not realizing I’m still there and cries out.
“Shh. Momma’s here.” I say to him.
“Momma,” he says as he grinds his face into my chest. He’s asleep in a matter of minutes. I slowly make my way out of his bed. I pull the covers in around him. I kiss the soft hair and warm skin at his temple. I pick up a tiny hand and kiss it before tucking it under the blankets. He sleeps the rest of the night.
The next morning, I am awakened by the sound of one of his noise-making books honking loudly by his door. He is awake and is patiently keeping himself occupied until I let him out. I get out of bed, open his door, and a tiny creature in fleece footy pajamas flies past me, stops, turns to me and says “Hi, Momma!” before darting into his toy room where he plays with his train set until breakfast.
He eats his yogurt and fruit quickly and quietly knowing that finishing this dish will get him a bowl of Cheerios and milk. When I set the cereal before him, he looks up at me and says, “Ank oo!” I sit across from him eating my breakfast and checking my email. He lifts his small plastic spoon for me to see and proclaims that it is a green spoon. I tell him that, yes, that is a green spoon and that he is a very good and smart boy.
Now it’s time for Sesame Street. The time of day that I dread and he loves. With the hour-long show comes 10,000 questions about minute details on the screen. Yes, Elmo is red. Yes, that is Mr. Noodle. Yes, I see Big Bird too. No, that is not a cat, that’s a dog. Yes it is. YES IT IS.
He has not been napping lately. Usually around this time, it is nap time but now I pull some special toys out for him. We cut wooden fruit, play with cars, or fry bananas in his play kitchen. When I go upstairs to shower, he stands in the bathroom with me standing on his stool and compulsively washing his hands and getting water everywhere. I brush his teeth and he begs for a sip of water from his ducky cup.
Now it’s time for his lunch. I put him in his chair and serve him a plate of bologna, cheese, and a crackers or chips. He asks for a sippy. I bring it to him. He tells me to sit. I sit and we chat while he eats. We talk about the house that he can see out of the window. We talk about the kitty misbehaving. We talk about what kind of cheese he is eating. We sing the ABC song. He claps and wants to sing it again. We sing it again. He claps and wants to sing it again. We sing it again. He claps and wants to sing it again. We sing it again. I get up from my chair and remove his empty plate before he can ask for another encore. I let him down from his chair. He grabs my hand and says “DOO DOO!” And drags me upstairs where we play with his train set (choo choo). We come downstairs and chase each other around for a bit.
I ask him if he wants chicken for dinner. He says no. I ask him if he wants fish for dinner. He says no. I ask him if he wants rice for dinner. He says no. I ask him if he wants noodles for dinner. He says no. I ask him if he wants a weiner for dinner. He says no. I ask him if he wants French fries for dinner. He says no. I ask him if he wants M&M’s for dinner. He says yes. I opt for chicken.
His father comes home. He goes crazy. They say their hello’s and hug and kiss.
We sit down to dinner. When he sees that he did not get M&M’s for dinner, he gets angry. He repeatedly pushes his plate away from himself and I keep pushing it back telling to eat a little bit. He puts a piece in his mouth and takes it out before chewing. I tell him to eat or go to bed. He doesn’t want to go to bed so he eats one piece. Only one piece. We give up after about 45 minutes of screaming and tantrums all around. We go downstairs and watch a DVD. Then we go upstairs and play with the train set some more. Then it’s bath time.
He plays with all of his toys, splashes us, points out his winky 200 times, and turns on the cold water and squeals when it hits him.
We take him out, brush his teeth, lotion his body and put him in fleece footy pajamas. We read him a book. We snuggle him under his blankets and kiss his cheeks. He says night-night to us. We turn off the light and tell him that we love him. We close the door.
