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To My 6-year-old Son (and any girl who may break his heart)

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I have a new appreciation for snails and bugs and all other slothy, jurassic-looking reptiles that fall victim to my washing machine. (( Thanks to pets in your pockets, son. )) If my job is to remove the dead from our dryer, I'll do it gladly.

I'll be the lizard morgue.

The truth is - my biological clock is ticking, as I only have about 100 more days of fertile tush-wiping before you, my son, decide to reach back and do it yourself. (( before you don't need me anymore )). Your dad seems to think that this current way of catering to your 6-year-old self affords me nothing but the possibility of a boy who's too lazy to do anything mom won't. I disagree. (( I still need you too )). While I do hope to graduate from the University of Charmin at Rear End, It's been valuable practice for someday wiping away your tears of rejection. If I'm there to wipe, for sure,

I'll be the wiper.

This, of course, will come back in the form of my own tears, the first time I drop you off at Lacrosse camp and have to walk away. I know you're big, son, but that's small compared to the ginormous moment this is for me. (( It's bigger than the sun and the mountains )). Still, if I have to leave, I will.

I'll let go.

When I find you on my bedroom floor in the morning, in your footed pajamas and with your bunny named Chocolate, or when you call me from a sleepover and want to come home, I'll scoop you up. You're safe with me.

I'll be home.

I'll buy way too many bottles of vitamins because you only like the purple ones and I'll have a hard time buying you big boy sheets when the Star Wars ones aren't cool anymore but that's okay. I'll grow up with you.

I'll be your friend.

When you get off track and throw rocks at your sister, I'll smack the same tush that I once wiped. It's my job to keep it clean. If you don't even think you'll need me when your first love breaks your heart,I'll still be there.

I'll be the girl who was your first love anyway.

When you're so mad at me that your little face gets red and your body is about to explode, remember that I squeezed you out of my belly. (( it hurt )).

I'm your Mom.

This might sound like a lot that I do for you, but I don't how to be someone who's not your Mom. You love me in the mornings when I'm not pretty, and when I'm stinky and sweaty, and when I'm not doing my job very well - you're so forgiving. I learn from your simplicity and your unconditional love.

I'm your student.

And when you're running around town in your car, taking girls on dates, driving through fast food at midnight in college, and I'm not there, (( of course I am )), I hope you pause and think of me -

the Lizard Morgue,

the Wiper,

the Home,

the Friend,

the One who lets you go,

the Love,

the Student,

the Mom


(( p.s. Don't grow up ))


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