The boys have been fighting. And not listening. And fighting. And not listening. And just for good measure, fighting some more. It was our first real day of summer vacation because we've been on the go until today. Our first day of downtime. Our first day without any type of schedule to speak of. We were not coping well.
"Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mom? Mommy? Moooommmmmm???" is what I've had screamed in my general direction for roughly 10 hours now.
So by the time Mason decided to use the nice note cards that I just bought after I had already said no 28 times, I. Was. Done. And I exploded.
"No one ever listens!" I ranted. "I'm sick of it! It's ridiculous! Why does no one ever listen to me when I say no??!?"
Ugh.
"But Mommy," he started to sob, "I was just writing everyone a note!"
And he was. One for each brother. One for Daddy. One for me. "Momi," he wrote carefully on the front of the envelope in his perfectly practiced kindergarten handwriting.
Giant crocodile tears streamed down his face. He cried with all of his five-year-old might. He was heartbroken. And then, all of a sudden, so was I.
This is what I found in his sad little hand:
 |
| In case you can't read his "Mason phonics", it says: "Momi, Luve You, Mason" (written in what he has decided is cursive) |
And in that moment, a five year old taught his thirty-seven-year-old mother a lesson. Life is short. Hearts are fragile. And note cards, no matter how much they cost, are just paper - meaningless without precious sentiment poured inside.
I'm willing myself to guard this moment carefully and revisit it again when I need perspective, even if it is 28 times a day. Because really, I should know better.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll write the little guy an apology. I think I know just the note card to use.
