M.O.B.--Personal Space

Being the mother of a boy or M.O.B. means NO PERSONAL SPACE. Being the mother of anyone really means that. I didn't expect my boys to be so entranced with me all the time. I thought at some point they would attach themselves (rightly so) to their dad and I would be left waiting for a snippet of their attention as they stomped through their house in their muddy shoes newly home from some grand adventure with dad.

This is a false thought. My boys seem to find everything I do fascinating. It's like I'm some incredibly entertaining toy that they must always be around. It's as if they think they're going to miss out on something I say or do or some expression I make if they aren't with me and not just with me, but touching my body at all times. (O.k., I'm exaggerating about the "touching my body" thing.)

I've often wondered why my children don't have black eyes or beat up faces from the many times I've taken a step sideways and elbowed them or "hip-bowed" them. And yes, my hips would leave a bruise.

I recently commented to my husband that I'm the most popular person in our house. EVERYONE wants to be wherever I am. He whole-heartedly agreed.

Popularity is a new thing for me. Growing up, the word popular never would have been attached to me name. "Nice" would have---if you can believe that. Time does have a way of sharpening a person up. (wink, wink) I was a bookie, you know the type. That girl who was quiet and nice to everyone, but mostly because she was quiet you thought she was nice and she read all the time. I mean like ALL THE TIME. If you asked me what my favorite thing to do was, I'd have said and I quote, "I like to read books." Is it any wonder I didn't go to my junior prom? Or senior prom for that matter? : )

I can't say I love being the most popular person in our house all the time. Sometimes when I'm just trying to get from the sink to the stove and there's a little person (or big person...Zack) in my way, I get a little...impatient. Or when I sneak off to the back bedroom just to put up clothes or make the bed (who am I kidding, I don't make the bed) and John Owen packs up the toys he's playing with in the living room and brings them all back to the room I'm in just so he can "be where you are momma." And then I have to help him pack them up and move them back to the living room. I may get a little irritated.

But then I think of the rapidly approaching future. It's like the days are flying by in this house. And I know that ONE day, sooner rather than later, they'll be asking to leave this house to go somewhere else where the real popular people live, where the real fun people are. And then I try to soak up the attention and tattoo it to my brain and remember the sweetness of the moment and that it's actually kind of nice to be desired so much. One day I know they'll discover that I'm not really popular. I'm just mom and I do really nice things for them like change their poop diapers and wipe their butts.

Recently John Owen revealed to me that he didn't want me to go to Heaven. When I asked him why, he said, "Who would fix my breakfast, lunch and dinner?"

Sigh. They really are sweet...most of the time.