Call me Mother of the Year.
My three-year-old, Peanut, is sick. Major cold. Begs for lunch and refuses to eat. Do I offer sippy cup and sympathy? No... I point out uneaten food and he starts crying. At this point, I finally figure out that he's tired to the point of temper tantrum. Call me Mother of the Year.
I take Peanut upstairs and get him changed (because potty training is but a distant dream of mine) and put him to bed. He sniffles and reaches his arms for a hug. As I get ready to leave his room and finally eat breakfast, I hear a tiny voice. "I sorry, Mommy". Call me Mother of the Year.
He still loves me and considers me Keeper of the Train Set, Master of the Markers, and Giver of Snacks. What have I ever done to deserve this? I lose my temper more times than I can count, want to rip out my hair, and yet feel this fierce protection over this little man. Despite the endless frustrations of the stay-at-home mom, there is nowhere else I'd want to be than by his bed, waiting for him to wake up so I can tag along on all of his discoveries.
Call me Mother of the Year.
No comments:
Post a Comment