Last night we were “helping” Connor clean his room, a nightly ritual that brings upon me a veritable plague of horrified know-it-alls, because he’s too YOUNG to clean his room, he shouldn’t have to do that yet, poor little guy, you’re way too strict with him, why don’t you just EAT HIM and be done with it, you heartless monster? To which I say, I would eat him but then who would bring Mama margaritas and fan her delicate face while she reclines gracefully on her chaise?
I’m just kidding. We don’t have a chaise.
Anyway, we were helping Connor clean his room, and I originally put “helping” in quote marks because he does most of the work himself. He likes us to sit in his room with him and make silly faces and suggest odd homes for his toys while he cheerfully places them in his toybox, and I read somewhere that acceding to your child’s wishes helps give him a savory flavor. As he put his toys away I was flailing about on his bed, professing shock and horror every time I found a toy under the covers, when WHOMP! I smashed my hand into one of his gigantic hardcover books. I yelled something pretty unintelligible, mercifully avoiding any curse words, and shook my hand in bewilderment.
“Mommy, did you got a booboo?” Connor inquired. I affirmed that I had, in fact, damaged my hand in some way, and could not imagine how this came to be, as I am nothing if not a paragon of grace and restraint.
“Here, I can help you,” he said. With that, he flung his arms around me, squeezed tightly, and looked very earnestly into my face. “I am the DOCTOR.”
If I don’t post for a while it’s because my heart, it has burst into a billion pieces and I am busy reassembling it. Jeez, kid, save it for your wedding day, okay?