Thursday, July 9, 2009

Magic Mom

My son must think I'm magical.  

It's really the only explanation for my clairvoyance, my super-human strength, my omnipotence, and the pair of eyes residing on the back of my head. 
I utter something like, "I should probably put the vacuum cleaner away or you'll start climbing on it," and he'll stare at me as if to say, How did you know that's exactly what I intended to do the second you left the room?  Or we'll be in the car, I'll look in my rearview mirror and see him about to stick his foot in his baby sister's face and I'll bark, "Rollie, put your foot down."  He looks up, startled and bewildered, thinking, How the hell did she know that?  She didn't even turn around!

I announce that he's tired and he shakes his head, even though he's rubbing his eyes and staggering like a battered boxer, and deep down he's telling himself that he's exhausted but must not under any circumstances let me know I'm right.  He runs into his room and shuts the door and I knock, telling him to sit on the potty.  He's a deer in headlights, always flabbergasted that I am more in tune with his excretory system that he is.  Yes, my son can't even think about taking a crap without me right there with him, telling him he'd better use the bathroom so I don't have to change yet another diaper.

I can find any toy, open any door, reach things and cook things and read anything I see.  I am faster, bigger and stronger that he is, and I can answer any question he throws my way.  It's no wonder he seeks me out when he's hurt, or frightened, or just needs a hug.  And also no wonder he hides from me when he's done something wrong--I must already know the crime and am busy preparing a punishment.

I wish I were indeed magical, that I could clean up his booster seat with a wriggle of my nose instead of fifty scrubs with a damp paper towel.  Or I could keep him in his bed with a simple spell instead of two night lights, a white noise machine and a baby gate. I wish I could protect him with pixie dust, I wish I could keep him innocent and healthy and happy with enchantment charms and magic wands and special potions.  But mostly I wish I could keep up the appearance that I am indeed magic.  I wish he would always see me as all-powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing.  I wish he would always see me through the eyes of a wondering child and not the eyes of a jaded adult.  I wish.


  1. You may not be magical, Bekah, but your writing certainly is. Beautiful post!

  2. Wow Bekah, you have a knack for poignant and relevant writing on the subject of parenting, especially motherhood. I can't wait for your book to be done. I am convinced it will do well.