It’s 8:34. I finally have a chance to sit down after finishing the dishes and laundry and cleaning up. It’s been a long day, and I realize that I’ve yet to have dinner. The couch beckons, so I sit down and turn on the computer. My feet go up on the couch, and I lean back with my eyes closed, waiting for it to boot.
That’s coming from Mister Man. My husband is sick asleep in bed, so I race up the stairs, almost tripping on the clean socks I’d left folded on the landing. He’s still crying as I slip into his room. I reach for him on his bed, and he’s sitting up, wriggling and crying.
What is it, Mister Man? What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?
Do you need a hug from Mommy?
Are you too hot?
Do you need DouglasKitty?
What’s wrong, Kiddo? I can’t help you if you can’t tell me? Shhhh, shhh. You’re ok.
He continues to cry with his eyes closed like he isn’t fully awake yet. And he’s yet to stop wriggling around. To the untrained eye, he appears to have ants in his pants.
Sweet Pea, do you have to go potty?
I get my first half intelligible noise, a moaning yeeeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. I can see that he’s in no condition to go himself, so I scoop him into my arms and make my way past the Thomas trains still on the floor and head into the hallway. He’s still crying and wiggling.
In the bathroom we go, and I’m briefly grateful for the small nightlight inside. I set Mister Man down in front of the toilet. As I reach to open the lid, he’s wriggling his pants down. His eyes are still closed, and his mouth is hanging open.
A steam emerges. A most impressive stream. The longest stream a little boy could create. Forty-five seconds later, he sighs in contentment. The pants slowly come up, and I help him wash his hands before carrying my forty-one pound boy back to bed. He’s sound asleep long before I set him gently into bed and cover him back up.
That’s about when I walk into my husband’s room with one comment and one comment only. He is so your son.