KLOMP
KLOMP
KLOMP
KLOMP
Every night, around 1 a.m., I wake up to that sound.
KLOMP
KLOMP
KLOMP
KLOMP
My heart races and it takes me a sec to remember what's happening: It's Max, aka Big Purple Foot. He's wearing his night cast, and klomping toward our room in it.
KLOMP
KLOMP
KLOMP
KLOMP
At 8 years old, nearing 9, Max is kinda old to be crashing in our bed. But my willpower is weak at 1 in the morning. And lately, I don't mind the cuddling (aside from when he kicks me in his sleep).
"He's looking like a big kid lately," a babysitter said to me the other day.
"He's still got those pinchable cheeks!" I said, hopefully, trying to talk her out of it.
"Yes, but he's definitely looking like more of a big kid," she repeated, and I had to agree.
Max, my sweet Max, is getting older. And I am not ready to let go of his early childhood. In part, it's because I feel like I missed out. Anxiety and worry consumed me when Max was very young, and stole joys of motherhood away from me. I did not savor Max's deliciousness as much as I could have. I did not photograph the rolls on his chubalicious thighs, like I used to do with baby Sabrina. I did not goo and coo over his meaty little hands, as I still do with Sabrina, because I was too freaked about how stiff and tight they were from the CP. I did not take comfort in his beatific smiles.
The happiness came, of course. But I think I'm still trying to make up for lost time.
So for now, I will startle when I hear the KLOMP KLOMP KLOMP KLOMP, anticipate seeing Max's shadowy form appear in the doorway of our bedroom, pick up his warm body, lay him down next to me and kiss that last bit of chub in his cheek as he nods off to sleep. Because before long, I'll no longer be able to do it.
