(Wake up, 5:18, ohgodwhymyalarmisn’tforhalfanhourpleaseletmesleepjustalittle)
Making breakfast, packing lunch, getting dressed, brewing coffee, queen of multitasking. Tick tock routine next step now what.
In the kitchen, slicing cucumbers and washing grapes, eggs scrambling on the stove, cooking in my slacks and bra because today’s shirt is still hanging in the laundry room, when my son says
He says “Mama, you’re so pretty.” And he strokes his tiny hands across my hanging belly, battle scars bared, and he leans in and kisses it, rests his cheek on the bulge above my belly button, and whispers,
“I was a baby in there.”
My son is 4 years old, and he doesn’t know that I’m not pretty. And he doesn’t know that nobody wants to touch stretched out wrinkled up sagging old skin. He doesn’t know that his mama isn’t beautiful, or strong, or brave or smart or perfect.
Maybe he has a lot to teach me.