Young Love

It’s hard to close your little boy’s bedroom door at night when he holds out a flower for you—even if it’s an hour past his bedtime. Lately we’ve let Atrain keep his bedroom door a little bit open (per his request) as long as he stays in bed. He has responded miraculously well to this privilege, and I have to admit that it feels great to not have to tie his door shut every night. But tonight he tested my resolve. I could hear him milling around in his room, then soon enough I heard his door creak open. “Looks like I’ll have to get the jump rope out,” I thought. Then I saw it: the petals of a fake flower emerging from the crack between his door and the frame. “I got this flower for you, Mama!” Atrain said.

My heart skipped a beat, but not for the same reasons it did when “Awe-she-baba” gave me a flower when I was a sophomore in high school. I saved that silly little daisy for weeks. This heart fluttering moment meant so much more than that. I am the woman in my son’s life: the only head of hair he cares to play with, the only one he calls princess, the only one he gives flowers to. And yet, I am also the one who puts him on time out, nags at him to use the big boy potty, ties his door shut at night with a jump rope, etc. I’m flattered that he so easily overlooks all of my faults and loves me regardless. Glad he’s learning well from his father.

He broke the rule, but I decided to let this first offense slide because it was just too darn sweet. I knelt down, looked at my little boy, gave him the biggest hug, grabbed a cochlear from the table and said “Thank you so much for the flower! I love it. I love you…now please stay in bed or I will have to lock your door.” Atrain retreated to his bed, but within the next few minutes he was back at the door yelling, “MOM! I want my flower back!” Awe, young love.