A two-year-old boy made me cry. Toddlers just aren't what they used to be. Toddlers used to be dirty diapers, sleepless nights, crying ear infections, and patience vacuums. But they also used to be hugs and kisses. Mommy I love yous. Pudgy little cheeks, impish little grins, and the reason for living. This little boy was that kind of toddler, sitting behind me in church speaking his loud whispers and playing with his Noah's Ark toy, making me cry.
I didn't put my boys in car seats before church that day. I didn't even drive with them in the car that day. I left before them. They got themselves ready and drove to church. Without me.
I only have a year left to hold this family tight in my arms. To scold again about the milk lid, to urge again about studying hard, to encourage again to put God first. I only have a year to make sure he remembers to unroll his socks in the laundry, puts gas in the car when it's empty, brushes his teeth before bed. But I also still have a year to grab hugs as he passes by, listen to his witty remarks, and absorb all that is him.
He will go away to college, and like a dog left on a rope at the picnic, I will wait for morsels: his calls, his texts, his I need money, where's that paper, what am I supposed to do. I will lick them up, relish every crumb, because it will be all I get.
His place will be waiting for him when he visits. And I will be across the table waiting as well.
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