Spilled milk

On Friday evening, I was ecstatic.

Your father and I have both been feeling burned out at work and exhausted.  I looked forward to hanging out at home with the two of you, having barbecue chicken sandwiches for dinner, and sipping a glass of wine.  As the 3 of us sat down to watch a move together, you spilled your glass of milk.

I had warned you repeatedly about bumping against the table it was sitting on, and about waving your arms around in the vicinity of it.  When you realized what you'd done, you looked down with shame and my annoyance softened when I saw your face.  I put on my calmest voice and directed you in cleaning it up from the table and floor.

We soon discovered that the milk had also spread under the Lego house you'd built on the table. Your father was getting frustrated, and I could see your unhappiness at knowing that your spilled milk was the cause.  I used every bit of patience I had to overcome my fatigue and continue to talk you through cleaning it up.  You did a good job.

Afterward, I opened my arms to you and said, "Come here, baby."  You sagged against me and said in a small voice, "I'm sorry I ruined the evening, mama."

(Oh, my dearest heart!  Any bad evening with you is better than my best evening alone.)

I hugged you and kissed you and told you that you hadn't ruined anything--that it was an accident and you did a good job cleaning it up, and we were all here together.

Can I smell you?

This morning I showered and dressed for work in the dark.  As I sat on the edge of the bed putting on earrings and preparing to come and wake you, you wandered sleepily in.

"Good morning, baby," I whispered, and held my arms out to you.  You lay Blue Blankey and Flamingo beside me on the bed and snuggled against my chest.

"Can I smell you?" you whispered, and buried your little nose into my collar bone, inhaling deeply. I had just put on my favorite peony lotion and we both love it. "You smell good," you breathed.

I hugged you again and stroked your hair, and in that early morning moment my heart was unexpectedly full.  How well I remember loving the smell of my own mother.  I can close my eyes now and remember how she smelled when I was a child, and the comfort and familiarity that I associated with that smell.

When I dropped you off at school, I bent down to hug you and kiss your cheek.  I heard your little nose sniffing me again as your head was against my shoulder.

To know that my smell is comforting to you...somehow it makes me feel like a real mom.

References to J.C.

We had a long-awaited playdate with your friend Elyssa this weekend, and it gave her mom Molly and I a chance to catch up. We are similar in our regular cursing and in our appreciation of creative cursing, and as a result we both struggle to raise daughters who don't curse like sailors at all times.

I went into the kitchen to get together some snacks for all of us, and it wasn't long before Molly came in giggling at what you'd just said.

When showing Elyssa a plastic horse that you particularly like, it feel over and made a loud clattering sound and you muttered, "Jesus Christ."

Elyssa's eyes widened, and she asked, "Are you allowed to say 'Jesus Christ'?"

"Not really," you admitted.

I can't believe this hasn't happened sooner and while at school.  I feel certain the day is coming.