Scrambling to run out the door. Five minutes late, of course.
Diaper bag restocked? Yes.
Snacks packed? Yes.
Everybody pottied or in a fresh dipe? Yes.
Shoes on, everyone? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes.
And then …
“Son, did you brush your teeth?”
Guilty shoulder shrug, slight grimace.
And I lost it. The stress of the past month, the rush out the door, the late night working on a writing project–it all hit me in one, sick rush.
I lost it.
I sucked breath through my teeth, raised my eyebrows, threw my hand on my hip, looked at the ceiling. Then I got that lanky, oversized boy square in my sights and let him have it.
“This is not o.k. Son! YOU HAVE GOT TO BRUSH YOUR TEETH! You are not 4 years old! Do I really have to remind you to brush your teeth every morning? Seriously?”
His lower lip trembled. His big, beautiful blue eyes shifted shamefully to the floor, where he couldn’t see his whole line of siblings staring at him in his moment of disgrace. His cheeks flushed white, then pink, then red.
And his shoulders? Those proud, tall shoulders of that burgeoning man-child that spread so elegantly, reminding me daily of the handsome guy he’s becoming? They were hunched. Cowed into submission by the angry words I was spitting in his face.
Just then, the face that I saw before me wasn’t my boy at all. It was the image of a friend who has a son of her own. A boy who, sadly, will take a bride long after his Momma is gone and unable to help him pin the corsage to his tux. A boy who will not hand his firstborn into his own Momma’s waiting arms one day and whisper, “Here you go, Grandma.” A boy who will brush his teeth without his Momma’s nagging for many, many years before he is grown.
The tears came before I knew what was happening. I grabbed my boy by his bent shoulders, hugged him close and begged his forgiveness. Pressed my lips to his forehead while it was still low enough for me to reach, wrapped my arms around him while he could not escape. Loved on him. Felt him slowly, gingerly, uncoil and accept the kisses I couldn’t stop myself from lavishing on him.
Because really, I don’t give a whip about whether or not he brushes his teeth. Not in the big picture. What I care about is that I have this boy–this young man— to love and cherish. I have my precious boy here, now.
Those are the big things. The Do Not Forget Things.
The teeth? Well, they matter. But not more than my son. Not more than his heart, his pride, his sense of what it is to be loved and accepted. I’m just grateful that God, in His infinite love for both this child and me, pulled me back just far enough to remind me of how blessed I am. Sure, I’ve got a boy whose idea of oral hygiene is, shall we say, lacking. But I’ve got a boy. I am blessed to be his mother. Praise God, I have watched him lose every single baby tooth in his head and might someday even be the one to hold his hand at the oral surgeon’s office as they wrest the wisdom teeth from his jaw. I will most likely cry when he shows me the ring he’s selected for his intended. I’ll walk over the threshold of his first home and watch him crackle with excitement as he tells me about their plans for the place. I’ll have lunch with him some day when I’m 70 and he’s 43, and I’ll tell him that he’s too young to be worried about this or that. I will be a part of his life, and he mine.
That, well … that’s a Do Not Forget Thing. That’s the stuff that matters.