Brown and Sticky

Let me preface this by saying, I love my children. They are the lights and joys of my heart. But they are also the most terrifying creatures in existence. You cannot turn your back on either of them for more than three seconds unless you want the entire contents of the juice carton on the floor, the dog whimpering over his pulled tail, crayon on the walls, lego under your foot, and a bean stuck up someone’s nose. This is my life.

There are times when fear takes hold of your heart and you’re sure you’ll never draw breath again. I’d just gotten my two-year-old girl, Carly, to lay down for a nap and I was racing to find my four-year-old boy, Brent when he ran up to me. He grinned a huge wide grin and I knew with every fiber of my being that I was about to find something horrible. I girded my loins.

“Mommy, mommy,” he paused to giggle, “Mommy!”

“Yes, Brent.” I picked him up, though he was getting far too heavy for me to carry anymore. My heart broke a little. He was still my baby. Fear of what I was about to find and the ache of knowing he’d never be this young or this small again warred in my chest. Brent didn’t notice he just clapped and giggled. “Mommy, do you know what’s brown and sticky?”

And suddenly there was nothing except sheer terror in the depth of my heart. “Sweetie?”

“Come on, mommy guesssss!”

“I have no idea,” I swallowed. “Tell mommy, what is brown and sticky?”

“A stick!”

I was silent for a few moments. My heartbeat slowed and moisture returned to my mouth.

“A stick… mommy! Don’t you get it?” My son looked at me in confusion.

“Oh, honey! I just got it.” I laughed, mostly in relief. “You are so funny.” I kissed him and put him down.

“I want ta show you my fort!”

“Yes, I would love to see your fort.” And I followed my son to the mess of sticks he’d piled into a ‘fort’ and said a prayer of thanks to myself.