Solo Mother

today

by christina on March 21st, 2008

Oh. My. Goodness.

This single mother is exhausted. I have no idea how his pre-kindergarten teacher can do it with 24 of these little amazing spinning tops every day.

It started at seven this morning, with all the animals somehow levitating toward my bed, a small pair of feet magicking them toward me. There he is, there’s my boy, my King of Everything, smiling and laughing and of course, true to form, it’s not a school day and so he’s up with the sun. My alarm lays forlorn and bereft of its assigned duty… it won’t be waking me up another bliss-filled snoozing hour from now. The Kid piles on and suddenly is dashing back out of the room, only to come pattering back in, his personal pillow in tow. “Here, mama, I brought you another pillow because you’re sick,” he chirps, and gently shoves the offering behind my head.

He snuggles in for our morning conversation, which as always consists of him asking the sun and the moon, and me patting and answering and begging, “go back to sleep, baby, please…” upon which time he closes his eyes for thirty seconds until another question pops up on his internal ticker tape and ping! the blue eyes open, the chatter recommences, and the mother in me whispers to my inner, exhausted workerbee, surrender.

On the way to the bus stop, book bag bulging with every knight and warhorse and dragon he owns, he tries to pin down the exact definition of spring, its temperature variance, its dates, its mood, its feeling. I watch him hop and twirl and listen to an even million questions about grass and ants and flowers and clouds and God and sandwiches. I tell him funny stories about my dogs Zoe and Esau from another lifetime far before he was born, and he crows with laughter: “Tell me the stories about your dogs until we’re on the bus, mama!”

Today is different. My office is closed for Good Friday and the King of Everything is on his first day of spring break. Unfortunately, I have to work, and so he’s coming in with me. He’s such a little man, racing towards five in another week, and I have to let his rubber band stretch even farther. I know he’ll always spring back to me, but I get a little nervous when he leaves my office and goes out exploring on his own. He has such a rich imagination, I can’t keep up with the stories in his head. He has to go over to that other lady’s office because she’s asked him to help her count campaign buttons and stickers and posters and such. He has to help that other lady water the tree in the big boss’s office. He has to draw pictures for Miss Jane whose office is right next to mine, and Mr. Peter who made him his favorite mix tape ever. He has to get me a crown at Burger King, and wants to know where the copy machine in the office is, just in case, and what’s a fax machine and can he use these magic markers and what’s the really big pieces of paper for and can he have a piece of gum and can he have one for that lady too and do these computers play video games and he didn’t have a chance to play with his knights and

suddenly it’s time to go home; I’ve gotten so much less done than I had hoped, and so much more than I had thought possible. Suddenly, it’s time to go home, and everyone else in the office who came in to get some work done is tousling his hair, high fiving him, saying goodnight. We drop his birthday invitations into the mailbox on the corner, pick up some last minute things at the pharmacy, and catch the bus like choreography in a black and white film. He doesn’t stop, not once, with the thinking and the talking and the jokes and games and riddles and rules, not until I finally give him one last kiss and close the door.

He really is the King of Everything. What a magic child.

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