"No, you dor-ork." I trailed to a stop, remembering to whom I was speaking.
My son slanted his head and looked up at me. "Mama. It's not very nice to call your son a dork."
"It isn't?" I asked, all innocence.
"No. Some kids might think it's mean," he continued, his voice stern.
"No," he shrugged. "I know you."
Besides "I love you" and "Shoes, half off" are there three any more wonderful words strung together in the English language?
He knows me. He's known me his whole life. He knows I'm grumpy in the morning without my tea. He knows when I hold up my hand, frantically pushing buttons on an imaginary remote control, he needs to lower his voice. He knows when I raise my eyebrow and give him The Look, he needs to do what I told him to do fifteen minutes ago. He knows I burn the first four pancakes and that I can't seem to get his eggs to cook over easy without breaking the yolks. He knows I'm always down for a Glee sing-a-long and that I can help him keep his Harry Potter, Avengers, and Transformers lore straight. He knows we're always late. Fashionably so, I assure him while he rolls his eyes.
He knows me.
As much as a six-year-old boy can possibly know his mother.
Although, one day, he might realize that my magic tricks are always done with a blanket covering the disappearing object that is coincidentally never bigger than the palm of my hand.
And he may some day find out that I'm not a movie star just because I posted a You Tube video that garnered twenty-three hits.
And he could possibly discover that the picture of me singing karaoke is not, in fact, a glimpse of a rock star career a la Phineas and Ferb's mom.
Because when I put myself on a pedestal, I make sure it's high enough to cause a nose bleed.
Still, he knows me and his expression of that knowledge make me want to grab that imaginary remote and push pause.
Babies require care, so much care. Toddlers require someone to keep them from the three thousand ways they think of to get themselves maimed or killed each hour. Preschoolers require you to step back and let them assert their ideas and independence. But little boys who are getting ready to enter first grade?
Well, they're starting to become the men they'll be.
A little over a year ago, a scary part in a movie would have Joseph leaping for my arms to hide his face in my neck. Now, he rubs my shoulder and tells me it'll be okay when I tear up at the end of Tangled. He still wants to be hugged and kissed, but rolls his eyes while doing it.
I like that he knows me, knows my idiosyncrasies, and seems to be growing into a witty little boy. Also known as a smart ass.
It makes me think we might be friends one day.
18 hours ago