One Whipped Mother

Does the NFL Allow Pampers, I Wonder?

I woke this morning to the sound of my four-year-old's Fred Fllintstone feet slapping on the hardwood, a purposeful, hurried slapping that infiltrated my dreams and produced images of an old Italian fish monger slapping the side of a large cod. Annoyed, as it was only six a.m. or so, I pulled the covers over my head and waited for the inevitable Mommy! Mom? Mooooommmmmyyyy! as well as the usual earthquake of my hefty boy throwing himself onto my bed, the unpleasant sensation of his meaty knee connecting with my ribs, but much to my (short-lived) relief, none of that occurred. Instead, my boy stood quietly at the bedside, and as I listened to his huffy, impatient breaths, I caught a whiff of the very reason I'd dreamt of baccala. I thought to myself, "Not today. I'm not well...Let Lar do it today."

So I played dead. I'm entitled to play dead, goddamnit.

Apparently, the boy picked up on my vibe, and slappity-slapped his way out of the bedroom, taking his vaporous trail of hell along with him, and then I heard him say, "Damn it, Daddy, change my diaper!"

I had quite an epiphany at that moment. It hit me, right at that pivotal, frightening, earth-shattering moment, that my son, my darling, smart-as-a-whip, broad-shouldered, big-legged boy will be wearing diapers until the end of my natural life. And then I wept.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:40 AM