Doesn’t every mother, at some point in her life of motherhood, usually when the school principal is on the line or a child is covered head to toe with something green, wish this job came with directions? Didn’t the maternity ward nurses hand us a Mommy Manual with the complimentary samples of formula and butt wipes? Why were they laughing when they wheeled me out to my car?
Fast forward from the 32 straps, snaps and buckles of the newborn and his carseat, to the 332 grunts, shuffles, pairs of outgrown shoes, SAT retakes and meals inhaled in the course of a 16-year-old’s day. Once again leaving the in-debt, gray-streaked mother asking, “Where is my instruction book for this thing that used to be my little boy?”
The little boy who actually wanted to talk to me. Who I secretly wished would nap three times a day so I could get some peace and quiet, not to mention a trip to the bathroom alone. Who said, “Mommy, you’re pwetty! You’re the best mommy. Tuck me in mommy. Stay with me mommy.”
Who would have thought the answer to regaining a bit of that mommy-son magic was so simple? And out of the mouth of babes it would come? A sixteen-year-old babe on his fourth day with the full-blown shoot-me-now flu?
“Hasn’t this been great mother-son quality time together these last few days?” the blob on the couch asked me. From beneath the layers of covers and a-little-too-long-for-his-father’s-taste curly hair, I think I even detected a grin. It was a grin! The teenage boy smiled at me! He spoke a clear, coherent sentence! At that moment the rain stopped, the sun broke through the slats of the window blinds and a chorus of angels’ sweet voices filled the air.
“Mom? Mawwwwwwwwwm.”
“Huh, what?”
“I said, I need some more Tamiflu and Alka-Seltzer Flu and ice water and saltines and can you hand me the remote?”
I dragged my tired carcass off the chair next to the couch and did my best Nurse Betty imitation. Fresh water, more ice, open another box of Saltines, wipe down the remote with alcohol, dump the snotty tissues into the fireplace, spray the dogs with Lysol, and take his temperature. For the 80th time in 4 days. I was exhausted and starting to feel feverish and achy myself and just a wee bit cranky.
“101.5 young man. You’re not going anywhere for a while.” I swallowed and my throat and head throbbed in rhythm. He wasn’t supposed to hear me mutter, “Great, now I’ve got it.” He reached up for my hand as I put the thermometer on the coffee table.
“Mommy, you’re pretty. You’re the best mommy. Tuck me in mommy. Stay with me mommy.”
And I did.
Karen Rinehart is a syndicated newspaper columnist, public speaker, and creator of The Bus Stop Mommies™. Her book, Invisible Underwear, Bus Stop Mommies and Other Things True To Life, is a popular read in book clubs, school pick up lines, and soccer fields. She enjoys hearing from readers across the States and as far away as Australia, Japan, and England. You can read more at BusStopMommies.com. Karen lives in North Carolina with her two kids, two dogs, and one husband, where they attend St. James Catholic Church. (Well, they leave the dogs at home.)
