Here’s the thing I will never understand: Why are my boys infinitely more dependent upon me than my husband? Why, when we are both standing at the kitchen counter, do they always ask me for a drink of chocolate milk? Why is it that when I’m in the bathroom for all of sixty seconds, they bang on the door and ask, “Mom, are you almost done?” while my husband can sit in there with the sports pages for thirty minutes and no one says a word.
Why, every morning, do they say, “Mom, can you help me pick out something to wear?” or “Mom, what’s the temperature today?”
Why, when I quietly wake up at 5:30 a.m. and sneak downstairs to write, does their internal alarm clock go off? It’s as if deep inside their little sleeping bodies they know I am up, so they should be, too.
Why, when I am standing at the bus stop in the morning, do they want to snuggle into my coat and hang on me? When dad goes to the bus, they throw a football.
On the rare weekend, when I might actually sleep in for an additional thirty minutes, why do they wait for me to come downstairs before asking for breakfast? “Dad’s been up the whole time,” I say. “Why didn’t you ask him?”
“We weren’t hungry then,” they say.
Is it not enough that I carried them in my belly for nine months and then had them tied to my boobs for months after that? Is it a boy thing?
All I know is Mommy needs a break and the boys clearly need some quality time together with dad to see that he can do all the things mom can do (probably not as well … but certainly good enough).