Mockingbird

As the parent who is here most of the time, I spend a lot of time with the kids when I am physically but not mentally present. Too often, when they ask for my attention, the answer has to be, "I'm working on something," or "I would love to, but I have to get dinner started."

Even when one of those things is not true (and one of them usually is), I have a hard time shutting down the ever-present litany of I should I should I should ...

Tonight, like every night, Sprout wandered into my bedroom long past the time he should be sleeping.

"I can't sleep!"

"I know, buddy, but ... but you just have to. It's time."

I could tell he was tuning me out. He'd heard what he had to do one too many times today, and he had gotten too little in return. Without some payback in time and attention, this was going to get ugly.

"Do you want a hug and a kiss?"

"A song!" he demanded.

For years, I sang him to sleep every night. The kids each had their special song; ours was "Mockingbird." Lately, it's less often. Some nights he's not interested. He wants a different song, or he wants to sing one to me. Some nights, I think I am too tired. "It's Daddy's night for bedtime," I say. "I'll sing you one tomorrow."

Tonight was "Daddy's night." But tonight I said, "OK. Get into bed. I'll be right there."

Instead of letting him climb into my lap, where he rocks and baby talks and gets crazy-silly, because he is a big boy, after all, and is starting to feel he "should be" too big for this, I had him stay under his covers. I rested my hand on his cheek and looked right into his eyes while I sang.

He can look away if he wants to, I decided. I won't.

It was a little awkward at first. He looked at me, cracked a grin, looked away. I felt a bit silly, too, and thought about how rarely I look deeply into anyone's eyes anymore. But eventually we both relaxed into it.

It was a rare moment of real intimacy: touch, eye contact, and our special song about a mother's promise to give her son everything he wants.

In the end, I changed the words a little. I often do this, and it makes him giggle. Tonight's version didn't even make sense:

And if that horse and cart fall down,

You'll always be my baby boy in town.

But he didn't giggle, or roll his eyes, or remind he's not a "baby." He just took it in, gave me a quiet hug and kiss, rolled to his side, and went to sleep.

For tonight, at least, this mom kept her promise. For tonight, he got everything he wanted.

If it's a penny for your thoughts, how much for 5 minutes of silence?

I love my son. I do, you guys. He is funny and charming and asks great questions and makes these amazing observations that let you see things in new ways and make you wonder about things you've never wondered about before and ohmygodtheboywillnotshutup!

Yet another reason I'm glad the kids look like us. Because otherwise I'd be staring down the barrel of some tough questions about whether he and my daughter really have the same parents.

When I drive Sweetpea somewhere, she sits in the very back of the van and thinks about things, or reads, or talks to her imaginary friends, or sings along with the radio. Honestly, I'm not sure exactly what she's doing most of the time. But what she does not do is require any interaction whatsoever with me. In fact, any attempt on my part to initiate conversation will likely be ignored.

I used to find that kind of annoying. I remember thinking, "Gee, I wish I had a child who would tell me what she was thinking." Oh, the universe and its little jokes.

Because a car ride with Sprout? Let me put it this way: You know how in most churches you can pretty much zone out during the service if you want to? But then you go to a Catholic church and they keep testing to make sure you're really paying attention? It's kind of like that.

Only it's just you and the priest in a car, and you're working out the ending to the poem you just wrote, or you're trying to have a complete thought from beginning to end, or maybe even just listening to a song you love, and meanwhile the tiny priest in the backseat is saying maythelordbewithyou maythelordbewithyou MAYTHELORDBEWITHYOU MAYTHELORDBEWITHYOU until you realize he's waiting for a response of some kind from you and just when you start to answer "And also with --" he asks you how McDonald's cooks hamburgers so fast.

And while you're thinking about how to answer that, he's saying, "Guess what, Mommy!"

"hmmmmmmm ...?"

"I know how to spell 'space.'"

"Oh, yeah?" (Still thinking about the hamburger question.)

"S - P - S"

"OK, well that's really close, but it's actually ..."

"You know what, Mommy?"

"... S - P - A ..."

"Heyyouknowwhatmommy?"

"Huh? Oh. What?"

"I saw those things yesterday? Those things that you control with your body?"

"The ... you control with your ...?"

"Those things that you control with your body, Mommy! That we saw on TV? The boys at gymnastics had them? Can I get those, Mommy?"

(Starting to wonder what he controls other things with:) "Well, maybe on your ..."

And then he asks you whether a lizard is a turtle's cousin or just his stepbrother. Or wants you to look at how his fingers are two different colors (Just look in your mirror, Mommy!). Or kindly offers to count to 199 for you. Again.

Then you come home, and your husband asks you a simple question like how your day was or why you're drooling like that or where all the Tequila went and you'd like to answer him, you would, but the last available cell in your brain is working on the family tree of lizards, so instead you just rock back and forth, muttering something about turning the downstairs bathroom into a sensory deprivation chamber.

Yeah. It's like that.

Carpool, anyone?