Most mornings my husband is up before me. I lie there, diagonally, assuming the starfish position. It is glorious. I wait for my youngest son to join me. He runs in with messy hair, smelling so yummy, and snuggles close. All three of my kids used to do this, but he is the only one who still seems to need Mama time first thing in the morning. I won’t let go of this tradition until he does.
Sometimes, in the middle of the living room, he is playing with his drone, deep in Minecraft, or trying to making a boobie trap. He is so engrossed in what he is doing I don’t even think he is aware of me walking by, but then he stops what he is doing, grabs my waist, hugs me so tight, and says, ” I love you, Mother.” I never let go until he does.
If we are home or out in public (it doesn’t matter how public), and we hear music, he and I automatically start dancing. Sometimes with arms around each other, sometimes three yards apart. My two older kids are left mortified, but I don’t care and neither does he. I never stop dancing until he does.
He is never too busy, or too cool, to have his picture taken with me. He loves it — the crazier the better. Sometimes he asks if we can take silly pictures together in front of a mirror (usually in a store or restaurant). My answer is yes — it will always be yes until he stops asking.
If he is upset, I can still change his mood. This usually starts by me tackling him to the ground, acting like a crazy snorting monster that has to tickle him until he is happy again. And after his smile returns, I still lie there with him. I don’t get up until he does.
He still lets me smother him with kisses, inhale his deliciousness. He sometimes knows what I am thinking when we are sitting next to each other. He leans into me, lets me kiss his cheeks and his head. I don’t stop until he pulls away.
He still lets me hold his hand when we cross the street, when we are in a crowded place, or just because I feel like it. He doesn’t need me to do this anymore. There is no chance of him running away from me because he knows to stay close. Each time I reach for his hand, he reaches back. I don’t let go until he does.
He doesn’t mind if I eat some of his candy without asking. He shares his cookie with me, even if it is the last one. He laughs when I stick my finger in the icing on his piece of cake. He always tells me I can have more if I want some. And honestly, I will probably always do this to him, whether he likes it or not.
I know he will grow up all to soon and, like his older siblings, not have as much time or tolerance for his mother. He won’t let me kiss him as much, I might have to fight for hugs, and snuggling with me every morning will become something we used to do. Dancing in public will not be our thing anymore, and I won’t be able to coax him out of a bad mood by acting like a wild boar.
He is my youngest child, my last child, and I will not let go, not until he does. I will a bit when it is time, but that time has not come yet. So for now, we will embrace in the middle of our living room, hold hands in the grocery store, and take pictures together in random places, and I will be all in for all of it, hanging on to these moments, every single one.
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