He's silent, brooding, not exciteable.
The other night he got hurt. Tumbling around outside with the brothers as I finished up dinner, I heard him start to wail.
No sooner had I put down the dish towel when he comes limping in. Tears streaming, jaw set, bewildered look.
I sank to my knees and gathered him in my arms. Kissed his damp cheeks over and over, whispering I was sorry he was hurt.
He pulls away and heads back outside.
I call after him, "Are you ok?" "Do you want the ice-pack?"
He shakes his head no.
I sit there, a bit confused. Had he not just been screaming like a leg was broken two minutes before? Had he not had enough tears to fill an ocean?
A kiss and a hug were all that was needed to fix it.
All he wanted was mom. To know that I cared. To know that I would stop what I was doing and take on whatever had caused his pain.
I love those moments where "mom" is enough. I'm not a superhero, but darn if my kids don't sometimes make me feel like one.
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