He's a Lover

 Just when I was beginning to take myself too seriously, a Post-It note appeared on my desk, slapped there by a sticky, slightly pudgy hand with dirty fingernails:

I Love you, Mom.  P.S. Cme and tok to me.

Charming Baby had been trying to get my attention for a while and I hadn’t clued in yet.

“Sam, give me five minutes and I’ll wrap up what I’m doing.”

“Okay, I’ll be down in my room."  

"Waiting.”  He sang out.

My youngest son is the one who I thought was my fighter.  So impervious he was to cooperation as a three-year old, I took “Redirecting Children’s Behavior,” a parenting class that focuses on logical consequences instead of threats and punishments.  Twice.  I had to find a way to stop myself from pinning the child down and forcing sunscreen onto his red, defiant face.  Or, worse, avoid tackling him in public spaces and wrestling the kicking maniac into his stroller.

Up until a few years ago I was certain he would be the one who would leave me, run off to a university far away, never call or text, sleep his way through his twenties with women I’d rather not dine with, and then end up marrying some girl who had an unfortunate nickname for him like, “Sexy Sammy.”

Something happened along the way.  He blossomed into a lover.  He likes to sing.  And dance.  And cuddle.  He likes to comfort himself when he’s falling asleep by running his fingers through my hair.  When we are sitting across from each other in a crowded place, I’ll look up and catch him staring at me and he’ll mouth, I LOVE YOU.” 

The most tender part of it is that he has learned to articulate exactly what he wants and ask for it in a positive way.  He is light years ahead of me.  I still bark like a salty sea captain when I am not getting what I want.  I try to be patient and I work very hard to model polite behavior, but I am no lover.  I thought I was going to pass my hard-earned, deep-creased frown line down to my baby.  Turns out I was just waiting for him to come along and teach me how to soften it.