I Love Them So

But the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t go, we’ll eat you up, we love you so!”  And Max said “No!”

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“Mom, you should leave the room.”

This from my oldest, my 4 year old, who was managing to convey maturity and sweet seriousness in spite of his context (perched on the upstairs toilet, pants around his ankles).  I’d stumbled upon him and his brother, two little boys who were supposed to be a-bed napping, but instead were sitting side by side on potties in the upstairs bathroom.  Jack was doing his thing on the adult throne, and he had convinced Liam to pull up the training potty chair and sit down next to him.  From downstairs I sensed with my Super Mom Spidey Sense that my children were not where they were supposed to be, and when I found them in the bathroom I, ever eager to encourage the potty training even at naptime, settled there on the floor at their knees so as to coax Liam along.  But I was, as it turned out, superfluous.   Jack had it covered.

“Mom, you can go ahead and leave the room,” he repeated kindly, and I raised a skeptical eyebrow, but did as instructed.  I backed out of the bathroom went down the hall to their bedroom, began hanging up their clothes on little hangers, ear cocked towards the door.  Moments later Jack called to me “Hey Mom!  Liam tee teed!”  Sure enough, he had: I discovered my littlest peering down in the little plastic bowl with a sheepish grin.  I practically threw a party – made a big fuss – and Jack, still sitting and without pants, did the same, acting old and wise and big brother-ish.  A couple of Hershey kisses and hand-washings later, they were both in bed.  I heard Jack praising his brother even as I walked away from them down the hall: He was carefully explaining how the world of Big Boys and Potties and Underpants work, Liam making affirmative sounds in response, their murmurings underpinned by the slight rattle from Liam’s beloved Puppy lovey.

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I think of my own death, inevitable, closer today than it was yesterday.  One day, if all goes as it should, Jack and Liam will bury mine and their father’s ashes in some place that they find holy, and turn away from us and walk, side by side, into their continuing life.  Many a year shall pass twixt now and then, I dearly hope, but since Jack let out his first tiny cry, I have pondered that day and all that I have to do for him and his brother before it comes.  Making them allies for life, through thick and thin – that motherly task is high, high on the list.

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It is short time later, after naps, and we dump out trains and track and cars and bits of stuff all over the dark hardwood floor in front of the tv.  We build a magnificent track together, use up every piece.  (This is what I envisioned for this floor, back a year ago when we picked it out from a handful of samples.)  Liam knocks over the bridge – “Mom!” he cries, “Fix it!”

So I fix it.