This Blog Post Is Not Funny!

Being a mother to Andy and Alex means that- at least for now- I have two people who love me unconditionally, no matter what, regardless of any of my many character flaws and simply because I am their mommy.  My husband, I suppose we love each other *almost* unconditionally, unless I have left food to rot in the sink (his major complaint) or he has kept me up all night with bearish snoring (the whole tri-county's complaint).

These two boys really do think I hung the moon.  I have to think that's one of the major reasons we end up having kids- to experience the pure, unadulterated love that passes back and forth for no other reason than the fact that we exist.  To be a mother is to love so hard that your very soul feels like it's going to crack wide open and spill out into the universe.  And my children love me back perhaps not as intensely but with a need that is still raw and unfiltered.  I feel their love in the way they climb so deep into my lap and lay their heads against my chest, in the way they burrow their faces in my shoulder and rope their skinny little arms around my neck.  I feel it when Alex toddles up behind me and throws his whole body into the back of legs, sticking his soft little face full on into the backs of my thighs.  I feel it when he climbs on me like a jungle gym, those joyous giggles erupting from his sweet, kitten-like mouth as we play, the way his eyes shine with happiness when we laugh together.  I feel it during his morning bottle, when he nuzzles against me under the blanket and keeps his hands rested near my heart.

My boys.

Andy, he tells me loves me.  He gives me kisses the way I give him kisses- randomly and without announcement.  He tucks his hand inside mine and trusts me fully as we cross the street or head off on a new adventure.  His actions are for my benefit- jokes to make me chuckle, good behavior done in plain view with a glance my way to make sure I noticed his sharing or other kind act, a completed puzzle to earn my praise.  He picks me flowers on walks, draws pictures for me, and wants me to witness his every action.  He wants to sit on the counter while I cook, wants to stand next to me while I brush my teeth, and wails with despair on evenings when I leave him behind for a night out with my friends.  He is my constant, loving shadow, and I could be the biggest jackass in the world, the most annoying and unlikable person alive, but as far as Andy is concerned, I am the best thing ever.  And it is still amazing to me, after over three years of being a mom, that nothing else about me matters to this kid except that I am his mom.  Mistakes I've made, my own self-doubts, however awkward or stupid I've felt, if I leave the house with especially bad hair and an unflattering outfit, moments of being snarky or rude, poorly timed comments- none of it matters to Andy.  He still gives me the widest smile every morning and has an opinion of me that would be a perfect 10.

How long does this last, I wonder?  Do I have a mere couple years left before Andy starts feeling like I'm too much?  When does he start getting embarrassed of me?  I do remember the years of loving my own mother without that fog of irritation hanging over us, but those are memories from when I was too young, too little.  I fear for when my boys start to judge me or don't so freely show their love and affection.  I feel lost and alone just imagining it.

Which is why I try to soak it in while I have it, why I try to remind myself that these are the days and that I need to stop and pause and bathe in it without getting frustrated over sticky hands or slow poke mornings or screaming over behavior that, while not entirely naughty, is just too overwhelming at times when it happens in consecutive bumps.  But that's easier said than done. Because sometimes these kids make me want to pull out my own hair or scream into a towel or throw something so hard it shatters.  Sometimes it's more than sticky hands- it's a disaster.  Sometimes it's more than a slow poke morning- it's downright disobedience complete with hitting, biting, pushing.  And sometimes it's behavior that's beyond naughty- it's the kind of horrid behavior that is truly, utterly deserving of corporeal punishment.

None of those bad moments make any kind of dent in how I feel about my children, though.  I think it's just all part of the package.  There are the outwardly lovey dovey moments of being a mother and then there are the moments when you have to search a little deeper to find it because everyone at that time just happens to be crying over a fight involving two boys, one choo choo, and a head injury involving a small dump truck.  But it's there.  Andy and Alex, I love you so much, all day and all of the time.  And please love me forever, too, just as you do in these fleeting moments.  This is my pathetic plea to that ticking clock.