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“Mommy time!!” I am jolted awake as a 47 lb missile hurls at
our bed, all legs and arms. I smile and
roll over, closing my eyes. Because, although I am a parent with a pair of X
chromosomes and identify with pretty much all things female, I am not the one
my son wants this morning. I am
Mama. I am also typically the kill-joy
in the morning, the one who is all-business on weekdays, making sure that shoes
are on and tooth brushing done and snacks made and violin practiced and
breakfast eaten and school forms signed and book bag is ready. Our son doesn’t want to take any chances this
Sunday, so it’s all about Mommy.
Wrestling and giggling ensues for a minute or so next to me on the bed,
but then he is on the move, dragging my groggy spouse from under the warm
covers.
“Mama, go back to bed”, he orders solemnly with all the
authority a 5 ½ yr old can muster. I
could feel excluded, but instead, his bond with the adult I love best in all
the world, the one I have pledged to be with and care for all the days of my
life, makes me happy beyond words- and not just because it means I get to
sleep-in this morning. I have seen too many instances of lop-sided families
where allegiances and preferences form (and then the inevitable resentments and
jealousies) to not feel deeply, deeply grateful for what we have. Last night, while my wife was at a function
(an “LGBT parents night” she helped organize), he and I had had our turn,
snuggling on the couch watching a kids movie from my 80’s youth. Now, understandably to me, he wants her.
We each have our roles; I am the boo-boo and bike fixer, she
is the ball-thrower and laundry-washer.
I am also the one that packs the backpack for outings, so I ignore my
son’s direction and throw on a robe to go downstairs. My wife is certainly capable of putting some
snacks and spare, size-5 underwear in a bag. She does this and much more when I
am out of town (gibes from friends about her helplessness in the kitchen not
withstanding), but I am happy to do whatever I can to support their agenda this
morning.
The two of them are going to ride to a nearby café for breakfast
and then off on “an [undefined] adventure”.
Like many Coloradan kindergartners, our son is already quite adept on
his two-wheel bike. He is quite proud of it- a blue 20” mountain bike with hand
breaks and gear shifters. It is his first major purchase with his own funds, a
combination of the consignment profit from selling his out-grown ski gear and
wood train set. Or maybe I’m the proud one, hoping that this exercise I
orchestrated has taught him a bit about commerce and the value of money. My
wife is mostly just glad we got our money’s worth on the train-set we sold on
Craig’s list while wistful about the Groupon I forgot to use when we bought the
bike. We each have our strengths.
I fill their water bottle, make sure the Epi-pen is packed (emergency
medication for his peanut allergy), and take out the trash as I walk them to
the gate. “Love you!!” I wave to their retreating backs as I wonder how to
productively procrastinate the work that is waiting me at the house.
