The other day, Boss was trying out his new finger paints, which are colorless until smeared on special paper. He dipped his fingers in the containers, then wiped them around into a beautiful (IMHO) pastel blob. As he watched the colors take form, he exclaimed in a Tinkerbell voice: “It's just like magic!”
Any Grinch's heart would have grown three sizes that day—I know mine did.
As I'm writing this blog, Boss is practicing more cuteness. He's at his train table, scooting little engines around in a precious world of make-believe.
“Guys, what're you doin' down dere?” he asks the choo-choos, playing on the once-complicated track reduced to scattered bridges and stations with a sweep of his arm. “Percy and Rosie, go back to work,” he orders, muttering something about an 'an-mal' shelter. “BUST MYYYYYY BUFFERS!”
Next, he's singing the Thomas the Tank Engine song in da's and dum's. Then: “Stop dat Toby, you can't come wif me!” accompanied by a derailment and some good old-fashioned train smashing.
Ahhhh, these are the days, just like that Natalie Merchant song. The sun is bright, a breeze is tickling the wind chimes, birds are chirping, my son is adorable, we had reasonably good grocery store outing--and I'm not even going to say it won't last.
I'm grateful to be a mother on days like these, but who am I kidding? I'm grateful to be a mom any day. After six years of infertility fun to finally hatch Boss in 2008, that's one of many lessons I vowed to remember. Throughout that time, I also remember thinking that if I ever had a baby, I'd never (or seldom) complain about being a mom--that somehow I wasn't even allowed to groan after wanting it so bad for so long.
Those notions lasted about two hours into delivery. Boss was 2 feet long and nearly 10 lbs.; I could only take so much.
I confess that for a while I was indignant about breeders who complained about their kids. “How DARE they whine about being tired?!” I'd scoff. “They should be KISSING the ground that baby crawls on! FRENCH kissing!”
I remember once shopping at a clothing store in a failed-IVF stupor when a frazzled mom was gathering items near me. She was trying to navigate a double stroller while holding clothes and keeping her kids from fondling a display of sunglasses and jewelry. I don't know who was grumpier—her or me. We both needed a box of kittens or a stiff drink.
A little while later when she was behind me in the check-out line, she ran out of patience, slapped her items on the counter and took off. I was ready for her to screech, “Thanks for letting me go first, jerk! Couldn't you see that my hands were full with these kids, and I was about ready to explode?!”
To which I was ready to shout back, “At least you HAVE kids, so shut your cake hole, and be grateful, you beeeeeeoooooocccchhhhh!”
I'm not proud to say that I had regular conversations like that with myself during the hard years. I even got to muttering under my breath, a dangerous habit. At least I didn't run down any grumps at the grocery store with my cart. Well, OK, I did that once. But only once, and I did apologize for my “accident.” Poor lady, her Kotex pad was probably yanking her pubes. Or, I dunno, maybe she just blew $8,000 on a botched IVF cycle!
Now, several years later, I'm on the breeders' side of the fence and the grass is definitely greener. A beautiful shade of shamrock, actually. Of course, I'll huff at weeds now and then, but that's OK, I've given myself permission.
Speaking of grass, Mother's Day was yesterday and one of the best parts was one of the simplest—rollicking on a blanket in the yard with Hubbo, Stinker and Boss. I learned a lot during my infertility saga, chief of which was to enjoy the moment and life's little things. Blooming azaleas, children laughing, fresh bread, a kiss under the dogwood tree.
And maybe just one big thing: being a mom.
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