Little hands

Aidan and I have a special church dance. It happens every single Sunday, without fail. He starts off sitting next to me, quietly, in his chair. Aidan loves to sing, so he really gets into the opening songs and sings his little heart out. Then we sit for awhile. He tries, bless his little heart, he really tries - for about two minutes. Before I know what's happening, he's slowly inching closer to me and then suddenly, he's parked on my lap.

Now, it wouldn't be so bad if he simply sat on my lap, but he proceeds to twist and turn and flip for the next thirty minutes, leaving me red-faced and sweating with the exertion of trying to not drop a 5-year-old who is suddenly looking like he's going to be following in his father's 6'3" frame footsteps (didn't those size 6 jeans just fit him a week ago?). I usually don't dress for a workout when I go to church.

This church dance of ours often annoys me greatly. But yesterday, just as I was feeling like I couldn't take the wiggling around anymore, he turned to face me and smiled, weaving his little fingers through mine. My heart melted instantly.

How much longer will my favorite little man hold my hand? How much longer will he draw me pictures of he and I hugging with a heart above our heads? How much longer will he ask in genuine confusion why he can't marry me when he's grown up, because I'm his favorite girl?

It made me think of past crushes and boyfriends and my wonderful husband, and how thrilling it is to touch their hand for the first time. Before I know it, Aidan won't hold my hand. Before I know it, a girl's heart will pound with joy because holding my boy's hand is her dream come true. I'll have to step aside as his favorite girl. I'll pretend I'm okay with that moment (and I will be, mostly).

But for now, I'm holding his little hand tight.

The Mother's Day "gift" that keeps on giving...

This lovely, heartwarming art project came home from preschool with my son, Aidan, last spring. Some of you have seen this already, but some recent Facebook comments reminded me of this parenting gem. Let's go over his answers, as I would like the chance to defend the shred of dignity I have left (and it is barely a shred, I promise):

1. My mom is 6 years old. True, mentally. I will laugh at LOL dogs (you know: http://dogs.icanhascheezburger.com/) any day of the week, leaving my husband speechless with embarrassment and amazement. False, physically. I pray no 6-year-old has stretch marks like the ones I've got. My bikini days are long over.

2. She likes to cook pizza for me in the kitchen. Apparently the poor kid thinks Pizza Hut is "homemade".

3. My mom is funny when she farts. This is 100% true. Yes, this is a shocking admission. Look, every mother needs to know how to clear her children from the room quickly and efficiently when she's on the phone or just needs a moment of silence. I've found my weapon. Feel free to use this parenting tip for yourself.

4. She is the best at cooking. Note that the class clown ran out of "good" or humiliating things to say about me at this point.

5. My mom looks pretty when she puts on clothes. I think we can all agree to agree that I do, indeed, look best with clothing on. This is a direct result of pregnancy and childbirth and the ensuing chestal chaos of nursing.

Now, let's imagine together how the preschool teachers and assistants laughed about this line-up of heartwarming Mother's Day compliments from my boy. He actually told his teachers about my gas habits. It makes you wonder if your child's teacher has enough dirt to blackmail you (they do - if they wanted). You know this boy is dishing to his teachers, but man, do I ever love him so much:

The perfect mother...

 

...correctly intuits the after-dinner baked good her toddler will desire and lovingly prepares it from scratch hours before dinner. The adequate mother has a craving for brownies, and whips them up with the assistance of Betty Crocker (with peanut butter chips thrown in just to prove to her family that she isn't a total baking slouch). The perfect mother's toddler is satisfied with the array of from-scratch desserts presented to her; the adequate mother's toddler throws a tantrum because she wanted cookies. The pefect mother doesn't eat the desserts she made, citing her waistline; the adequate mother consumes two brownies (her own, plus the one her toddler refused to eat), citing stress relief.