Yet even as I plead to Father Time not to tick and tock so quickly, to my dismay, I find myself watching them grow right before my eyes. This is especially evident with my older son, King A. I wish it were just a figment of my imagination fueled by my fear of him becoming independent of his mommy. Yet, it is no illusion that the roundness in his cheeks are slimming and the first signs of a defined jawline are showing through, or that the dimples that line along the base of each of his fingers (when he opens the palm of his hands) have disappeared. More noticeably, there are mature mannerisms that he expresses that stops me dead in my track and wonder, What the heck?
One weekday, at the rude hour of 7:30 in the morning, I entered King A’s bedroom armed with my iPhone in hand blasting a playlist I named A's Soothies. It is a compilation consisting of some of his favorite songs: "Hey, Soul Sister," "Rocketeer," "Fireflies," and a few others that instantly turn an upside-down smile right side up. When he heard the music, he immediately reached for his blanket and pulled it over his head. Simultaneously, he flipped onto his belly, tucked his legs under, and chucked his bottom up. In the few steps that it took me to reach his bed, I was greeted by a human boulder covered with a distorted face of Buzz Lightyear. After much coaxing, he relented and allowed me to remove the cover. I carried him to the bathroom to begin his morning hygiene routine.I began by removing his soaked Pull-Ups and set him on the toilet seat. Like most men (you know who you are), it takes him several minutes before a stream begins to flow. Shocking. I settled on King A's stepping stool nearby and waited impatiently as he voided. Anxiety slowly gained momentum at the thought of being late to work again. When he was finally done, I picked him up and set him on the ground before me to pull on his Lightning McQueen underwear. He stood in front of me with his eyes still closed. The allure of his recently vacated and still warm bed tempting him and paralyzing him from doing anything else except stand limped before me. In my seated position, his face was only inches away from mine. I stared at his features. He looked so innocent and small with his buzzed hair in disarray, and a white trail of drool crystallizing at the corner of his mouth. In spite of this, he was still the most beautiful being beholding my eyes; I saw a child with luminous skin, rosy red lips, beautiful large eyes framed with mile-long lashes fluttering like a butterfly as he tried to come out of his sleep stupor. I sat mesmerized by his placid beauty. Time and responsibilities were momentarily forgotten.
And just like that, the image of the innocent and naive toddler before me floated away suddenly, startled off, when his dimple-free, right hand reached around from his side to cup his crotch! Then, he began to vigorously jiggle it! Finally, he ended the assault with a quick shake of his right leg. Awkward. Initially, I had the visceral reaction to look away. But, the mature woman and mother in me snapped me out of my matronly moment, and replaced it with a form of scientific curiosity. I had never seen him do this before. Is it discomfort? A UTI? A simple itch? Or could this be something else, entirely? I’m sure if his father were present, he would know what to do. But as his mother, I felt like a fish out of water. Clueless, I began with, "Is everything alright?"
He gave me a wide, doe-eyed look as he answered, “Mommy, my wee-wee hurts.”
I used my index finger to pull the elastic waistband of his underwear away from his tiny waist to expose the contents inside. I peeked in, and “it” looked normal to me. It didn’t seem pinched or otherwise. Rather, it would be best described by Jim Carrey in Liar Liar as “short, shriveled and to the left.” So, I placed his waistband back. This resulted in him pulling and tugging at it even harder.
“Stop, cutie. You’ll hurt yourself,” I warned. Then I pulled out his waistband again. This time I instructed him, “Here, why don’t you fix your birdie.”
And, fixed it, he did. It's a mystery to me how he did it so effortlessly. He was content after what seemed like a quick adjustment.
“Better?” I asked.
With a smile slowly forming on his face, and the frown ebbing away, he nodded, and replied a cheerful, "Yep." Then, he kissed the back of my hand that helped pull his elastic band out, followed by a tender hug and a peck on my cheek.
I’m still not convinced that I did much for him, but I relish at the affection that he gave me anyway. And just like that, the affectionate toddler returned and began jumping around, carefree and playful with Lord R.
Unbeknownst to him, his moment of "manly" discomfort is my reminder that Father Time stands still for no one and that the pages in the "Toddler" chapter of his life are coming to an end. The stirrings of emptiness that King A is slowly creating as he makes his transition into the next chapter is a natural course of life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kick and scream along the way and hold on to what is near and dear to me for a little bit longer — my baby boy. My one saving grace is that I have a younger Lord R to replace King A's void. I know one day Lord R will do something unexpectedly startling and innovative to prepare me of his transition as well. I’m not too keen on that day. However, despite my reluctance to severe the umbilical cord...I am most definitely excited to meet the future King A and Lord R.
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