A Nauseatingly Warm and Fuzzy Story About my Kid
Sometimes, in fact almost all of the time, the magic of motherhood can be lost somewhere between packing the lunches and shuttling to soccer. There is a fair amount of work required in rearing children, and by work I mean constant nagging. Make your bed, stop texting, feed your fish, stop texting, eat something green, stop... Honestly, I can hardly stand myself by the end of the day. I don’t know how they put up with me.
But occasionally, something sweet and tender happens that is absolutely divine, and I want to freeze time. Generally, I feel these cute-kid stories are overdone, and therefore I shy away from them (but you can’t say I didn’t warn you with the title).
My husband returned from a business trip yesterday. On the way to gymnastics the kids were musing about what little gift he would bring them. Yes, I wonder what he’s bringing me, I joked. My oldest daughter immediately picked up her phone to text him a warning that I was hoping for a present. I laughed, and told them I was kidding, I didn’t really want a present. My youngest daughter said solemnly, I’m going to make you a present anyway, Mummy. I told her a hug from her was all I wanted (my originality is not at its peak that time of the day).
While I was making dinner, she was conspicuously absent, whereas usually she is underfoot. She finally emerged from her room with a piece of paper, laden with her writing.
Here it is, transcribed with her creative spelling:
Why I love my mom
1. She bys stuf for me
2. She loves me
3. She takes kare of me
4. She comeforts me
5. She buys me food
6. She gets me toys even when she dose not want to
7. She touks me in at niuht
8. She sins me up for camp and attivitey
9. She helps me whith math
10. She helps me sleep
11. She buys some stuf for crismess and a bunch of other stuf
12. She gives me money
13. She gave me a houes
14. She gets me brthday
15. She payes alot of mouney
16. She gets me stoueys (stories)
I flipped the paper over, and on the back she wrote a poem.
every night I sing a song
about How I love my mom. And
How she gives me vegtbaball
whith out her Id be so fat!
I love her whith all
my mite and I love you
so mouch that Id clim a ben soukc (which she told me was bean sprout)
(and then she drew a picture of her and the bean sprout.)
At the wise age of seven, she was perceptive enough to see through my rather pathetic ploy for recognition. Her gift made me speechless, which perhaps was the real goal – to dissuade me from nagging for an evening.
Stop growing, stay little, I whisper to her when she’s asleep.