Kangaroos

kangaroos.jpeg

Most of the time I feel like a kangaroo without a pouch. As soon as my son falls asleep in the stroller, I make a bee-line to the nearest coffee shop so I can read. But even in his sleep he can tell he’s not in my arms, and wakes up crying after a few minutes. I pick him up and he nurses for a second, then falls asleep on me. About 15 minutes later as he starts to sleep a bit more deeply, his little teeth clamp down and I yell some sort of expletive. Everyone stares. I don’t blame them. I imagine it would confusing to see a loving mother and son moment interrupted by spastic cursing. But that’s how we roll. He doesn’t wake up of course, being a city kid and always nodding off to the sound of police sirens and fire engines. He sleeps like this for an hour, then wakes up so happy. So much happier than he does when he naps in the stroller. With a big toothy grin and drowsy eyes he looks up at me and wraps his arms around me tight. He says, “HUG!” or if I’m really lucky, “I love you, mommy.” He’s way too big for a moby wrap by now, and it makes me want to invent a huge kangaroo pouch for toddler humans. This boy is all consuming, but nobody has ever loved me this much.

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