The other night, Nathan crawled out of bed, jimmied the bedroom door open, climbed down the stairs and stood at the front door, pawing at the doorknob and crying until his shrieking triggered my maternal echolocation and I frantically raced to retrieve my son.
That kind of run-on sentence is normal now.
There are times when Nathan runs with a highlighter and I’m already a few steps ahead in the disaster, after my son’s tripped and the pen’s impaled in his skull and the doctors are telling us that on one hand, surgery is impossible, but on the other hand, when Nathan reads, he’ll be able to emphasize that it’s Green Eggs and Ham.
Nathan laughs harder with his father. He runs to Mike when he wants to tumble or snuggle or play quarters. That is a lie. Nathan’s way too young to be adept at quarters. They play dimes instead. It’s a better fit for Nathan’s small hands.
It doesn’t bother me that Nathan pulls at my shirt when he needs something, that he resorts to his mother if there’s a popsicle on the other side of the freezer door or a Dora sippy cup in need of a refill. When Nathan wants to laugh hysterically because Mike wants to play airplane and Nathan’s protruding belly’s the airplane, his father’s the man for the job.
I realize Mike and I have different roles in Nathan’s life. I am the nurturer, the comforter, the woman whose shirt sleeve will double as a snot rag.
The truth is, if Mike and I were Nathan’s budget, I’d be the rent and utilities and Mike would be the weekend in Vegas.