Woog's Tooth

A little boy with grin so wide
Ran down the stairs all full of pride
“I pulled it out, so there,” said he
“It did not hurt a bit, you see.”

He showed me chompers shining white
And bottom center was the sight:
A gap so dark I barely saw
the yawning chasm of his maw.

“Another one is coming loose,”
He tiptoed up and showed me thus
While pinched between his fingers two
The milky peg, that calcium'ed clue.

For weeks he'd worried with his tongue
The wobbling stalk, a stubborn one
I'd oft pull grimy hands from tooth
As absently, he'd pull the root.

So now that clinging tooth is gone
And in its place, a sunken gum.
A teasing glimpse of winking bright:
A rising tooth behind the site.

He prances up and down, this boy
My gapped-tooth son, my pride and joy
He hides the tooth ever carefully
Away from the greedy tooth fairy.

Say Baby

He sidles up to me while I work, quiet-like, a sparkle in his slitty eyes.

“Say 'baby'!” He squeals, hugging my arm to his face and giggling. I look down at him and smile despite the interruption.

Eli and I have a running argument. I am trying to get him to give up the bottle. He is digging his heels in, attempting to delay the inevitable.

“You're not a baby anymore, you're a big boy,” I tell him. But he laughs up at me, both with his eyes and his triangular smile, while he squashes his nose into the soft part of my arm, breathing. With big snuffling noises and little growling sounds, he continues to look up at me sideways, wriggling like a frisky puppy, “say 'baby',” he urges.

It is times like these I am hard pressed at denying the very baby-hood of him: the chubby cheeks, the soft plump limbs, the remaining infant scent, and the special sweetness he employs to get his way.

“Mommy! Mommy!” He chirrups.

“Pet-a-poo! Pet-a-poo!” I reply.

But at night, just before bed, when he asks, “Peas...gimme...miiik...”

I tell him: “'Pet, you're a big boy. Big boys don't drink from the bottle.”

He runs to his cupboard and hands me one of his empties, “Miiiiik!” He yells mutinously, “MIIIIIIK!”

And after he drinks his fill, he crawls over to where I am frowning at him in disapproval. “Miss-you, Mommy!” he sing-songs placatingly, “say 'baby'!”

I am tempted to keep the status quo, just to have more of his hugs and squeals and sweet clingy softness, but there is his mouthful of teeth to consider, and I am sorely torn.

In the morning, he reaches over from his bed to feel for my arm, “'morning, Mommy....miss-you! Say 'baby'...”

I look down at him, and he is still half-asleep, but there is a quarter of a smile on his face where the morning sun is beaming, and his fat sausage fingers clutch at my arm as if never wanting to let go.

And neither can I.

Blown Away

Woog and I couldn't stop watching this. We're looking forward to their next installment with bated breaths.

This Day...

Celebrate mommy-hood, all ye who have... nursed, spent sleepless nights with newborns and feverish children, changed thousands of diapers, shaken millions of bottles of formula, gotten peed and poo'd on, rubbed salve on diaper rash, kissed boo-boos, gotten spit on, screamed at, vomited upon, attended countless tedious PTA meetings, done homework with disinterested tantrumy kids, and generally spent so much time as uncelebrated maternal slaves.... HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

The payback? Priceless!