Sunday, November 7, 2010


So I was snuggling my darling son, recounting the many triumphs and adventures of the day (Lego! Hide and seek! Swimming!); his head was on my breast, I was ruffling his golden hair and inhaling that funky/heady/goaty little boy smell; I was remembering countless moments just like this one; I was a little blissed out. Maybe a lot blissed out. Fine. I was really blissed out.

And then Luke yelled from the kitchen.


There are burn marks on my neck and hip, Kid got up so fast. Not even a "Bye Mom."

I suppose this should prepare me for the ultimate betrayal, when he gets a girlfriend. Or the smaller betrayals of a sports team, a rock band (please please please don't let him like reggae, please God, Mon, not the reggae), some dumb TV show, the older boy up the street who has an Xbox. It's natural--it means my boy is growing up. All is as it should be.

Maybe that's the lesson I should have drawn from this delightful experience.

But mostly I am fixated on this basic equation:

Sausage 1 / Mom 0

I can imagine myself purchasing sausages again for my two carnivores sometime around 2017.

And, in summary: little brunette girl up the hill with the sausage curls and the sparkling blue eyes and the excellent collection of leggings: BACK OFF.

1 comment:

  1. My son is only 12 and I am already practicing my 20-foot death stare that says "Back off you little wench!"