seven

Despite the fact that I always swore I’d birth only female children because God wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me raise stinky boys and despite the fact that I cried when my sonographer told me my oldest child was a boy, I must say that I have taken well to mothering male children.

One of the things I love most about boys is how much they love their mothers. It seems to me that mother-daughter relationships are often very close but also can be very tense and dramatic and emotional. I like it that the relationships between me and my boys stay on a mostly even keel. Things are fairly mellow around here.

My youngest son is especially devoted to me. He loves hanging out with me. He still scrambles up into my lap to read books and watch TV. I’ve spent a lot of time propped up in bed since my hysterectomy and he often bustles through the door with crayons, paper and coloring books and we draw and color pictures together. He especially likes to watch me play Scrabulous and has actually come up with some pretty high-scoring words.

He ambled in my room after school this afternoon when I’d just finished chatting with a friend via webcam. We sat for a while making funny faces into the camera. He was being especially sweet at one point so I stealthily snapped some pictures.

And the main reason I did so, is because he turns seven years old tomorrow and I just wanted to freeze his six-year old sweetness and happiness and mommy-love in time.