One day I will be buried in more past than future, so I try my very best to soak in every moment of my toddler’s childhood that I can. It goes by so fast, they say. So when Dylan pulls at my hand insisting, “Play with me? Yeah? In the room?” I know I ought to stop what I’m doing and make quality time for him. Because a year from now, two years from now, three years from now, and definitely 15 years from now, he’ll probably have no interest pushing around toys with mom across the bedroom floor...and it
might will break my heart. But today, he wants my companionship, my attention, and my crazy. Badly. (Yay!)
So I do it. I pick myself off of my pregnant tuchus, waddle on over to my kin’s room and park it on his couch. “NO MOMMY, SIT HERE,” he instructs pointing to the carpet in his best no-bullshit-fortune-500-CEO tone. OKAY. I comply, begrudgingly, his worker slave. I take hold of one of the many monster trucks he has carelessly scattered around only to be corrected, “NO! Not this one!” He says, snatching it out of my hand. “Hey, that’s not nice, you have to share.” I remind him, quietly hoping that his sister-to-be will collect on his karmic debt. I go to pick up another truck, “No! Don’t touch this one.” My patience. It’s dying. “Dylan, I don’t want to play with you. You don’t share!” My sass however, is sizzling hot.
The kid gets the message and switches gears, offering me the smallest truck he has as if it’s some grand prize, “Here mommy, want this one?” I accept his not-so-generous peace offering and begin pushing wittle wimpy, doing doughnuts around his plethora of giants. Okay, now we’re jiving! I think to myself. But I’m having too much fun, apparently. Boyfriend rescinds his offer, “No, No, NOT this one, THIS one,” he barks as he switches me to a full-sized monster before I even have the chance object to his excessive micromanagement.