Most of you know that I have two boys. Z is seven, and M is four. Perfectly fun ages. They are both joys and frustrations, laughs and tears, hugs and strangle-holds.
Z is my oldest. He was my first and is the sweetest natured child. He is just like his dad. Even-tempered, calm (most of the time), smart — WOW is he smart. He is my easy child. He can get his feelings hurt easily, so we’re working on that. We don’t want him picked on by the other kids for his sensitivity, and, …..well, let’s face it. HE’S A BOY! He’s supposed to be rough-n-tumble, rowdy, running h— for leather everywhere he goes, and mostly he does. He just happens to be a little too sensitive sometimes. He’s a leader, yet he can follow. He can run with the big boys or sit and watch television. I think he’s developing mine and his father’s love of reading. But he won’t give me hugs or kisses if anyone is watching — even strangers. He’s growing up. I can see the beginnings of the man he will become. I love him SO much. He was born just last week, I don’t care WHEN his age says he arrived. He’s my baby.
M is the youngest. He is my charmer. He is just like me — bless his little heart. He is tempermental, high-maintenance, prone to temper tantrums, and just, well, like me. I have no doubt he will stay in A LOT of trouble. But he’s a charmer. When he smiles, everyone smiles — even me, though I cringe also wondering just what it is he’s about to do. When he cries, everyone cringes. He won’t sit still for anything. Even when he’s watching Spongebob Squarepants or Scooby-Doo, he stays in motion. He still happily runs to me every day after preschool like he hasn’t seen me in a week. He still gives me kisses and hugs whenever I ask, and sometimes when I don’t. He still snuggles. He’s my baby. He was just born yesterday, at least in my mind.
They are my treasures. My own personal miracles (okay, I admit, my husband did havesomething to do with them getting here.) They are my little angels, especially when they are sleeping and not destroying their room, or asking 50 questions, or sneaking out of bed to play. When I get hugs and kisses and hear, “I love you, Mama,” I swear I see their halos (appropriately held up by their devil horns). One day, maybe they will know just how much I love them. How often I thank God for entrusting me with them. How fearfully I pray I can do right by them and raise them to be men like their father. One day. Maybe.
Meanwhile, I’ll love them, and hug them; yell at them then apologize; spank them and cry in my bedroom; then love them more. I’ll kiss them while they are sleeping and pray to God to watch over them, to make me a better mother, and to help me love them even more. I will do things right, and I will do things wrong. I just hope and pray in the end, I will have done MORE right than wrong.