Wednesday, January 14, 2015

The way of things

This morning, like a thousand mornings before, I put my arms around a 200-pound boy's shoulders, as he started to lift himself up off his bed to get cleaned up, changed, dressed, and ready for another day.

As I helped him sit up, his chubby cheek pressed against mine, and for the briefest moment I could've sworn I was feeling the perfect, satiny cheek of a newborn baby...the faintest scent of the vanilla lavender lotion I still put on him after his bath wafted up, and in that moment I loved him more than any mother ever loved her son.

A few nights ago I walked into the warm kitchen, darkness peering in through the windows but making no dent on the coziness inside.  Stephen sat at his spot at the table, playing with the miracle otherwise known as "features iPad."  His head, sporting a fresh crew cut, was uplifted and tilted slightly to the left - it's his dreamy, faraway, enchanted look.  He gets that look when he's focusing on listening rather than looking, and those of us who live with him know that look well.  In an instant, I took all this in - just after his bath, sitting there dreaming, slightly swaying to the music from the iPad, his t-shirt neckline shifted a bit and one pudgy shoulder peeking out - and in that moment I felt fiercely protective of him, of his innocence and purity of spirit.  Had some villain burst in, intent on doing Stephen harm, I would no doubt have fought him bare-handed and won, so intense was this protective instinct bubbling up from my heart.

In the last few weeks, Stephen has had some of his absolutely priceless and joyous non-stop giggling fits...especially if his dad or I figure out something he's saying and are able to repeat it back to him, or if he watches a certain Thomas video clip over and over and finds it especially funny...and in those moments, his delight and happiness are engaging, hilarious, precious and fun.  He laughs that belly laugh, barely able to speak, and one finds it hard not to join in, and just love him to pieces.

And then.

The other day, David and I came home after a long day.  Stephen had had a FANTASTIC day at school (ZERO SIB's) and he had laughed and giggled with his Mamaw all afternoon.  Not five minutes after my mother left, the TRANSITION problems set it, and we had a meltdown. Not a thirty minute horror, but still, even thirty seconds is bad enough...  And he ended up in his room after slamming the door, screams and slaps plainly heard regardless.  I dragged myself into the kitchen, all the lightness gone from my spirit, and I complained to David, "WHY does he do this after being great ALL DAY?  Why do I always get the bad stuff?"  (which is not even true, everybody's had their share, and could I get some cheese with that whine?)  

David looked at me and said, "...Because that's just the way it is sometimes."

And so it goes.  It IS just the way it is sometimes.  Sometimes it's just plain awful. Sometimes I want to apparate the heck right outta there.

But then I would miss those baby cheeks, those soft little hands that pat my face, that little voice that tries so hard, that whispers "I love you!" to me, to his daddy, his brother, to restaurants he loves as he's leaving :)...his new habit of announcing things as they happen, and praising things for doing a good job: "Yoook [look]!  here comes grilled cheese!" and "Well done, socks!  Well done, shoes!"...the sweetness of him sleeping, looking more like five than nearly-fifteen...the laughter, the eyes that crinkle at the corners like his mama's...and the honor to be found in protecting him and loving him as best we can, for the rest of his life.

Sometimes, that's just the way it is.


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