Every morning around 6.00 am I hear the most wonderful voice in the world, the voice of my son, Walker, asking me if he can be up yet. It’s early and I don’t want to be up, but since I haven’t heard his voice for at least 8 hours, I’m thrilled to hear him say, ‘can you make pancakes?’ And I can’t turn down that cute, little voice. Cut to 12 hours later, on his second sick day home from kindergarten, and I’m ready to stick my head in the oven so that I can have a moment of silence. It is an understatement to say that my five-year-old is chatty. Seriously, there are some days that I wonder how he can even be conscious. I don’t understand how he has managed even one breath between all those words that are falling from his mouth, an avalanche of stories, as he tells me about the world according to Walker. Usually, he chatters on about super heros or the latest Sponge Bob episode, or he will extoll the powers of each and every Bakugan as he refers to them by name - names that I am supposed to remember. I challenge you try to keep the names and powers of Dragonoid, Griffon, Claf and Frosh, just to name 4 of about 50, straight. Seriously, he will talk about anything just to talk. Sometimes he’ll sing some nonsense song, I guess just to hear his own voice. I know that sounds very creative and joyful and, of course, in about ten years, I will wonder what my son’s voice sounds like because he’ll be a moody teenager who shuts himself in his bedroom every weekend only to emerge for meals during which he grunts, maybe burps, and then leaves the table without even a nod to me. I know I should be grateful for this wonderful time of life when my son discusses with me the pros and cons of owning every single Transformer ever made or tells me why he needs all the Ben 10 aliens today instead of waiting until his birthday. I am grateful, truly I am. There are just some days that I need a little quiet time. And since ‘can I watch t.v.?’ comes out of my son’s mouth at least once every twenty minutes no matter how he’s feeling, I could, like most mothers who maintain some degree of sanity, use television as my babysitter for a little while each day, right? Wrong. My son wants to explain to me how the penguins can talk in one show and that in the next show, these two guys are always wondering where Perry the platypus is, and I’m actually supposed to pay attention. ‘Mom watch this, it’s so funny. Mom, you gotta see this’. The voice from the t.v. room reaches out and grabs me as I try deep breathing exercises, coffee guzzling and a chocolate fix to get myself through the day. As he carries on with his running commentary of his cartoons, I hang my head and wonder if I can fake bed time by closing the drapes, and I feel guilty for being tired of listening to him talk. I know I’m not the only mother who feels like this sometimes. I know it’s not the worst thing in the world to feel this way, but still, the guilt tugs at me like a five-year-old in a candy shop. In fact, I feel so guilty that I ask my son some silly question about Power Rangers knowing that he will spend the next 45 minutes explaining good guys vs. bad guys and rolling his eyes because he has to tell to me, once again, why those Rangers need to be strewn across his playroom floor instead of tucked away in their storage bin. (They are protecting the dinosaurs, really, mom. You should know this by now).
Now I’m sure I don’t have you fooled. After my son is finally asleep at the end of another long day, and the only sound coming from his mouth is a gentle and endearing snore, I kneel next to his bed and stroke his head and whisper that I love him bigger than the sky and forever and ever and I almost, but not quite, hope that he’ll wake up and tell me another long-winded story about how the Super Hero Squad saved the day.
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