Mother's Day

All I really wanted for Mother's Day was a nap. That was it. Squib got all tucked in to take a nap as well, sacked out when I did and I SWEAR he woke up about thirty minutes later with more energy than a kiloton of PowerBars.

So, thinking I could still grab a nap, I got him a snack, a drink, set him up with a movie, asked if he needed anything else (I was prepared to deal but he didn't know it--here kid, keys to the car!!!!), and then told him I'd like to sleep a little longer. He said he was "good" and I told him to come get me if he needed anything.

He needed something just about every five minutes. Actually, that's a generous estimate. It had to be less.

"Mom," he'd whisper with his face less than an inch from mine, "I need to know how to spell 'going'."

"G-O-I-N-G as in I'm going to kill you if you wake me up again."

"K. Thanks." And he'd trip off to the front room.

"Mom," he tapped me on the forehead between the eyes (!!!!!), "I need to spell 'when'."

"Like 'when' can I take a nap or I'd like to 'win' a million dollars and get a nanny?"

"The first one."

"W-H-E-N."

"K. Thanks." Pad, pad, pad...little feet leaving the room.

This happened several hundred times and with several hundred words. I have no idea what he wrote, but I think he was shooting for the second Gettysburg Address or something. After a while, he came into the bedroom and crawled up on the bed.

"Mom, are you ever getting up?"

"Squib, when do I ever take naps lately?"

"Never."

"What day is it?"

"Mother's Day."

I waved my arms around in some sort of "draw a conclusion here!!!" kind of gesture.

"So, are you getting up or what?" He is a persistent little devil.

"What time is it?"

"One-four-five." Thanks to the digital clock on his iPod this is how we tell time.

"WHAT??!? You mean you went to sleep, got up, have been trouping in and out of here and all the time that has passed is an hour?"

"I know," he sighed, "It's taking FOR-EV-ER." We obviously function on different perceptions of time.

I will admit that at this point I looked at my offspring with a glance slightly less than an outpouring of motherly love and adoration.

"Tell you what," I said, "You let me sleep until two-three-zero and I'll get up even though you usually sleep on Sundays a little longer."

"How long do I usually sleep?"

"Until you wake up."

"How long is that?"

"Usually some time around four-zero-zero." That got a horrified look and he scuttled off for the front room.

I think that made two-three-zero sound good enough to try. But apparently not good enough to actually come good on. And something happens to me when I get into a deep sleep--nap or otherwise--and don't quite get it out. I get a terrible headache. So two-three-zero arrived and I trudged out of the bedroom with a migraine the size of Dallas.

"I wrote forty-three emails." He said excitedly. Did I mention my five-year-old is an email mini mogul?

"I know, I was there." I said sourly.

But I really want to share with you what's happening with the Squiblet here! I was grumpy (still am...rawr) and tired and sleep-deprived from hours of studying for school. Finals week is here. But what I didn't miss this weekend was the cool thing that is starting to happen with my youngest child. For example (those of you with iDevices will appreciate the punctuation brought to you via autocorrect):

Dear.  Mommy. I.  Had.
Miss. You!   now.  Mommy.  I
Can't. Wait.  To.   See.  Axle.
Love. Squib.

Except for the alteration of his name, that is an email that he sent to me Friday night as we were sitting here doing various-and-sundry things and getting ready for Beanstalk's visit. Yes, you can now probably figure out Beanstalk's real name, but the misspelling of it was so cute I had to leave it.

Prior to this school year, the child (as I often refer to Squib) wasn't reading--much less writing. Now here he is writing expressively and writing about things that are, for a mom, just...special. He missed me. And he was excited about getting to see Beanstalk.

Buying him that nutty iPod was the best investment I ever made. He spends, on average, ten minutes every three days playing games and goofing off, but he spends HOURS writing to me, Buddy, and his dad about whatever comes to mind. And I do mean hours. I have to peel it out of his hands to bathe him. And I have to physically move the child closer to an outlet when it dies.

Yes, this does mean that I'm constantly spelling new things for him, but the note I posted above he did completely from memory. In fact, most emails are that long and perhaps one word per email is a new request. However, there are usually a lot of new words in them that I did NOT have to spell. And, frankly, I'm just wondering where they came from? That's kinda impressive to me. The kid's mind is turned on in a way I never imagined for his first year in school.

Quite a nice Mother's Day Gift after all...

So I'll still sit here with my splitting headache and several finals to work on (ah the misnomer of "open book" finals) and enjoy the fact that my kiddos are turning into interesting, loving, funny, and perceptive young men. And that's something any mother can be proud of.

But especially me.

Scat