I ask my son to hug me. He isn’t really interested. He wants to tell me the route of the bus he took this morning. He has big stories to tell. I notice a slight hesitation in his words coming out. I wonder about a speech impediment.
My mind wanders. What a privilege to worry about the smallest things and know that help is available. He doesn’t want to eat the dinner I laid out. He wants to go out to ride his scooter. I show him how dark it is. I tell him if he can spot another child his age riding a scooter I will. He patiently waits at the window. In a few minutes he gives up. Comes to the dinner table.
As he devours his food, my mind wanders to war stricken lands. Not one, but in double digits. What kind of childhood do those children have? Are they allowed to have a tantrum? Are they given any freedom? Do they have a choice of what’s on their plate. My thoughts feel silly given that perhaps the only thing on that three and half year old child’s mind is survival and hoping their family survives.
I’m grateful for the meal my son is eating. He is warm, secure, loved. No bombing over our skies. I don’t mind his tantrums suddenly. I don’t really need him to behave. I need him to grow up, experience adulthood, feel love, learn to love his music, travel, cherish his childhood one day.
I yearn for that hug. Perhaps another day. As I get him ready for bed, we read some books and by the time we are done, he is lying beside me, head on my lap engrossed in the “Little blue truck”, completing the sentences for me.
I feel gratitude and I pray for his long life. I kiss him good night and remind myself, the next time I do get to hug him, I will hold him just a little tighter; perhaps just a little longer.
PS: Lest I forget my good fortune. I am distraught at the tragedy unfolding for the citizens of Israel and Gaza. I am sad for those children and their mothers. I hold them all in my heart and I mourn their losses with them.
SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS 