I worry about my kids. I worry a LOT about my kids. How are they making it through this crazy time? How do they deal with hearing my name listed among the sick that we pray for at church every Sunday? How do they feel when they hear me say, “No, honey, Mama can’t” wrestle or swordfight or take them for a walk?
Are they ok?
Are they going to be ok when they’re teenagers, or all grown up? Will this time be a defining moment for them, something to point to in future therapy sessions? Will they be ok?
But yesterday, my oldest brought home a drawing from school that made my heart sing. They drew pictures of snow globes, and, out of anything in the world, he chose to draw himself playing with two friends. He drew friends.
He didn’t draw the dark scary place that I was in. He drew the happy, kid place that he was in.
And he’s going to be ok.
Today, he came home with simple homework: write three words that describe who you are. We waited to hear what words he’d choose, and, after his bath tonight, he told us:
Happy. Nice. and then he asked his Dad what word he’d use to describe him, curious what he would say. Dad said, “curious.” Widget smiled, and there the words were, all out in the open. WhyMommy’s oldest boy had fulfilled her deepest hopes, all at the age of 6. He is happy. He is nice to others and his friends. And he does ask “Why, Mommy?” just like I dreamed, well before he could talk. They’re still the sweetest words, next to the last ones I hear every night, as I turn off his light and kiss his forehead as he goes to sleep:
“I love you too, Mommy.”