Complete Turn-around

I received some very lovely and totally encouraging comments on my previous post, making me feel so overwhelmingly NOT alone. How empowering that feeling is, when you are hit over the head by a premature forerunner of the empty nest syndrome, to have fellow parents reassure you that your kids will always need you, no matter how old they (or you) get. To have a sense that you are not alone in your uphill struggle to raise your kids the best way you can - is awe inspiring.

As proof of that reassurance, over the weekend, my boys suddenly remembered what their mother was for. Sunday, Woog clung to me as I put him down for the night, "I want to hug you forever and ever!" He exclaimed dramatically, putting his arms around me and doing just that.

"Even until I get old and weak, and you have to carry me around everywhere?" I asked him, preening.

"Yes!"

"Even if I get sick and die, and you have to keep hugging my rotting body?" I joked, bringing on the morbid.

"Yes!"

"Ok, then, you can hug me the whole night, even if I haven't had my bath or brushed my teeth yet."

Long pause.

"Take a bath, Mommy. Brush your teeth."

"I thought you were going to hug me forever."

A cringing whimper, "But you're dirty!"

The germophobe: "Ewwie, Mom!"

Funny thing about having a son who loves you more than the thought of death, it's having a son who's deathly afraid of the thought of germs. Just like his mom.

Eli came down with a bad cold the same weekend, signalling the advent another sleepless gum-breaking milktooth episode. "Clinging" is such a tame word to use for the display of affection he exhibited. "Clinging" cannot rightfully be put down as the reason for one's utter inability to use the toilet because both arms cannot pull down one's pants to do the deed - they are full of sniffling, snivelling baby. Or to eat a decent meal because one's hands are busy holding and feeding said baby, who has refused, in shrill yodelling multi-decibels, to be deposited into the convenient comfortable highchair.

Mothers of teething babies everywhere should learn the trick of using their feet to pull down their pants to pee, or grasp spoon and fork with their toes to eat. We can do everything else apparently, why not this, too?

Snotface taking his meds like a good boy

I am gratefully overwhelmed by the sheer neediness of my boys. Even Atch has not spared me this kudos. Having not had a real vacation from work in over two years, Personnel ordered him to take one, else forever forfeit all of his accumulated vacation leave credits. Atch reluctantly took twelve days off and tossed an offhand invitation for me to do the same, "Take a leave, Aif," he muttered in passing.

Knowing my husband, this would have to be just about the most romantic gesture he'd managed in the last five years. This was a once in a blue moon opportunity, a needle in a haystack, a jackpot in the lottery. Right splat in the middle of my own work deadlines and a crucial project my boss was riding us hard on.

Cajoling expression not likely to be seen again in the next decade

"Let's take a vacation in Cebu," he threw in for good measure, knowing I had never been there. The PR man knew his hardsell. In abject gratitude, I took a one-day leave. He pouted a bit, but recovered quickly enough (so much for the romance), probably thanking his lucky stars that my work ethic saved him a hefty amount in plane tickets and hotel accomodations. As of this writing, he is spending his vacation doing all manner of repairs around the apartment. Quite the useful husband. I think I'll keep him.

All in all, despite the sleepless nights toothy Eli is giving me (arms around my neck, death grip on my exposed ear, open-mouthed snores into my face), the suspicious sniffing Woog subjects me to before he hugs me tight, and the husband who thinks a vacation from work equals a vacation from taking baths ("Hug, Aif."), I think I just might survive this deluge of attention.

I am needed, after all, and that alone makes all the difference in the world.