My Red is a typical three year old. Boundless amounts of energy, attention span of a gnat, and sweetness all balled into one. He exhausts me from sun up to way past sun down. I am considering investing in a countdown clock to hang up in my house to remind me of how long I have left until he starts kindergarten. I appreciate my time with him but long for the day when he has the stability of a classroom.
I recently had to take him with me to get some blood drawn. I was hoping there wouldn’t be a long wait. When we walked into the waiting room, there was about 10 people waiting. During the 40 minutes that we waited Red and I talked about what we would be doing this summer, he ate his cheerios, and we looked through two magazines. He did way better than I expected. When they called my name we walked back and sat in the provided chair. The phlebotomist was curt but proficient. She ignored my son. He sat in my lap. I explained that I needed him to hold still because the lady was going to take my blood and I didn’t like it (which is true, I HATE needles). He obliged. Once I felt the initial pinch of the needle I looked down at the mop of red hair and asked him, “Can you count with me?” We counted to 35 by the time the lady was done taping up my arm. And that’s when it hit me. As much as I hate needles, the instinct to keep my son occupied during this stressful moment was greater than the fear and pain I had.
Almost six years after having my Curls, I finally feel like I am an honest to goodness mom. All the fear, insecurity, and frustration I have endured over these past six years has subsided for the time being. It makes me realize that I am doing the best job I can and getting better every day. I will hold onto this feeling as long it will have me and use it to guide me in my future parenting decisions. Curls and Red were meant to be mine and they are shaping me as much I shape them.