A Minute. A Memory.

Five months.  Five months it's been since I've taken the time to sit down and write.  Five months ago I couldn't put my hair in two silly little buns at the side of my head.  But I did today.  I'm daring myself to go out in public to pick my boys up with my hair like this.  Why dare?  Who really cares how ridiculous I look anyway?  It's grey and pissing rain outside.  No one.  Not a soul.  Though I know my sons' will have something to say about my 'do.

Five months.  Five months that I've missed writing my little anecdotes and stories about my boys.  I've written them in my head of-course.  Always in my head.  I fear they've been forgotten by now.

But a few weeks ago my youngest one was playing in his little creative corner that happens to be in our living room.  It's messy, chaotic and strewn with legos, magnets and pieces of colourful construction paper.  Pencils, markers strewn in corners and under things along with Lego heads and miniature weapons that I must comb the floor for every time I vacuum.

"Pick up your stuff guys or the dog will eat it!"

But the dog never does.  The boys know this.  She only chews the occasional stuffed animal. And munches on delicious paper products from the bathroom garbage.

And so it all stays until a miracle happens and they decide to actually listen to me and clean it up.  Or until I can't stand it anymore and do it myself.  Mostly due to company of-course if for no other reason.

So my son - my baby, my five year old with the soul of an old man, the humour of a tween and the face of an angel, sits on his knees at the coffee table in front of the fireplace that heats up his back to a teapot whistle, he sits and he creates there every morning and every evening.  Rarely does he ask me to join him.  But when he does, I do because it's so rare.  And sometimes I just do.

I stand bent over with my forearms on the kitchen counter, my rear stuck out behind me with a clear but far enough away vision that it doesn't seem like I'm intensely staring at him like the weirdo Mother that I am.

Even though I am.  With wist, pride and happiness swirling in my heart.  My little creator.

A minute goes by without him noticing.  Until he does.

He looks up and makes eye contact.  I smile at him.  He looks back down, his little hands busy building and connecting.  No smile was returned.  He looks up again and I know what's next.

"Mommy sthtop sthtaring at me.  Why are you looking at me?"  His mouth is slightly turned up now but he's serious.  It's time for me to look away.

"Because I love to watch you baby.  It makes me happy."

"Well sthtop Mommy."  Creative and self conscious.  It's been noted before.

I reluctantly walk away with the image and emotions etched in my mind.

Next time I'm spying.