My son has been busting out with mad sweetness for the past 24 hours. Although he asserted his masculinity by roaring along with some despairing OSU football fans last night for the first half of the game, when we came home, he sweetly decided he should brush my hair before bedtime. Then he kissed me on the forehead and said “Good night, mommy.”
This morning, he noticed the tiniest cut on my finger.
“Is this a boo-boo, mommy?”
“Yes. Just a little one. It doesn’t hurt,” I said.
“I’ll go and get you a bandage.”
And off he went to the bathroom, foraging for the band-aids, which were stored in a high cabinet that he had no prayer of reaching on his own. I tried to tell him that I didn’t need one, but he insisted until I brought down the box, pulled one out and helped him curl it around my pinky.
“There you go. Is that better now?” He asked.
Seeing his desire to be a caretaker, to be useful and kind, my heart lurched a little.
“It’s so much better now, thank you Declan,” I said, hugging him tightly, kissing his forehead.
“You’re welcome,” he answered.
Do I really have to subject him to (or share him with) the rest of the world?