It is possible that I have scarred my son for life and he will eventually seek deep amounts of therapy for it.
Whatever happens, the women in his life will someday thank me. Profusely. They will thank me profusely and love him to unimaginable extents because of it.
The truth is simple. My son, when he can tell that I am quickly approaching that special time each month when it feels like somebody has pumped golf-ball-sized pop rocks into my uterus, chased by soda, spends the day cleaning things for me. And getting things for me. And asking me what he can do for me.
I don’t ask him to do this. I don’t even know how he knows. Maybe because I approach the breakfast table looking like an entire pot of coffee will only scratch the surface of my exhaustion? Possibly because I almost weep when he hands me a story with most of the words spelled correctly? It could be my fat pants. It’s hard to say.
“Mamma,” he says sweetly, dimples fully exposed, “What can I do to help you today? Why don’t I empty the dishwasher while you have some coffee? Do you want me to rub your feet?”
I swear to Mr. Clean, this is what he does. It almost makes up for all the batteries he wastes.
And then I get all menstrumotional and I tell him how beautiful he is and then gives he me the, “Ah Mom, you’re kind of a mess, aren’t you?” look and starts sweeping the floor.
Yep. That’s going to be some costly therapy…if the women in his life let him get it, that is.
Addendum: Just before dinner Eggplant asked me again what he could do for me. I asked him how I got so lucky to have such a kind son. He responded, no kidding, “Well, I know you’re going to start your period soon so I thought helping out a little would make it easier on you.”
|He even helps his sisters clean their room.|