The other night, Kyle and I were in the kitchen together as I whipped up dinner (which means: microwaved leftovers and cut up a banana), and we were having this sweet moment where I was making a funny noise and then he would make that same funny noise when I stopped and asked, "want some milk with dinner, buds?" And, no lie, he melted onto the floor, started kicking his legs and sobbing uncontrollably while muttering, "no no no no no."
Wait. No, not over milk. Over a QUESTION about milk.
There's a vegan joke just waiting to be made.
I didn't even respond. I didn't even attempt to diffuse. I stepped over him and turned on All My Children. When your child melts down OVER A QUESTION ABOUT MILK there's really nothing you can do, am I right? You wait that shit out.
Mike's sister and her husband were in town this weekend, and after a greasy dinner out Saturday night, we sort of spilled onto the sidewalk and got to talking and there was music blasting out the outdoor speakers and Kyle and his older cousin, Jake, just started dancing. Dancing! Right there on the sidewalk! And they were most definitely getting down.
At one point, a little girl came out with her family and Kyle walked over to her and sort of shook his butt toward her like, "look at my skills, darling."
There was my son -- wasn't he just a colicky baby? -- shaking his tush and nodding his head and dancing without a care in the world.
There is startling beauty that takes your breath away, that floors you with it's pureness, that redefines perspective and then there's behavior that would make a rabid squirrel seem like an appropriate dinner companion in comparison.
The highest damn highs and the most head-scratching lows.
And, shit if I don't get to be his mama for them all.
I wouldn't recommend parenthood. No, not to anyone. It's pure insanity. Not unless you get Kyle, that is. Then, yeah, I don't need to recommend it. You already know.