Two mental pictures descend, one; peanut butter removes gum out of hair. Chunky is best. Or so I’ve been told. Two: a picture of the blue wad of gooiness hibernating for– the foretold by my mother—seven-years in Isaac’s stomach. Then I wonder what, at nine he’ll think about my questions of his stomach full of gum. Because inevitable I’ll remember and ask him.
“No gum today Isaac,” I search the sky. Ahh, there it is!
“Look Isaac the moon!” I point and smile.
His tears become wonder.
“MOOOOOON!” the pitch of his voice peels paint, or warms the heart of a Mom looking for a distraction from that, which is bad for him.
Parenthood. Do they give out an Emmy for such incredible posing? No. But, I dare say they SHOULD! This love is dirty and, if you’re facing down a diaper, downright smelly. Hey, at least it’s love that sticks.
In a word, how would you describe parenthood?