A Mother's Legacy

I'm fairly certain that when my son reminisces about his childhood he will have fond memories. His life is enviable in various ways. He has his own room, enough Hotwheel cars to last a lifetime, and an endless stream of playmates at his disposal. He has a loving family, complete with two doting sisters and parents who are generally entertained by his every move. The one strange twist to these lovely memories will certainly be the fact that, when he imagines his mother's face, it will most certainly be with confusion. I can say with absolute certainty that Eamon will forever remember my face contorted into some look of disgust. I say this because I am constantly catching myself looking at him with a mixture of horror, awe, and disbelief.

Maybe it's because I had girls first. Maybe it's because I'm just a bad mom. Maybe it's because my son is a menace. I'm not quite sure. Maybe I should be more understanding when my son feels the need to finger paint with his barbecue sauce or use bar soap to write on the bathroom wall rather than wash his hands. Maybe I should be able to comprehend why my son believes that yogurt, pudding, and toothpaste are superior to shampoo. I guess I should be more reasonable about his need to throw EVERY item he comes into contact with, rather than setting it down nicely. Maybe I should reframe my ideas about little boys not being magnetic when it comes to dirt, grime, and sticky, unidentified substances. And, as far as reframing goes, maybe snot and old bits of toothpaste left behind on the sink are appropriate sources of nutrition. I guess I'm kind of a stickler when it comes to things like wearing seat belts, not driving a car when you're two years old, and leaving the house with clothes on. I suppose I should lighten up and just let my son play in my mini-van with my car keys for several hours of the day. Maybe he is old enough to walk out the front door by himself naked and dig in the dirt while talking about his penis to anyone who happens by.

Because of his constant need to touch, break, disobey, and be involved in any number of unacceptable situations, I am constantly thinking, "what a dummy" when I look at my son. I try my best to keep it to barely above a whisper but sometimes I say it out loud and although name-calling is not a condoned activity in the DeWitt household, I almost can't help it. I can't believe the things this kid gets into. It is truly comical. His sisters call him a "cotton-headed ninny muggins" and I can't argue with them. It is quite possible that Eamon's memories of his sisters faces will be similar to his experience of my own- a little bit of pride, a little bit of disgust, and a ton of love.