For the first time in quite a long time, my son came down from his bedroom and asked me to make breakfast for him. Normally he comes down and either cooks for himself or gobbles down some cereal or a bagel and is off on his way.
He asked for four slices of “egg-in-a-hole”.
The last time he made this request to me, he was looking up at me and his voice was significantly higher. Having mutated in the past year a full five inches, he now looks down to me and there is peach fuzz on his lip.
While I was caught off guard by his request, I eagerly reached for the skillet. My culinary skills quickly returned. He gobbled them down almost as quickly as I could get them out of the pan, he gave me a hug.
Hugs are mildly fleeting and very precious these days. I get more of the annoyed “MOM!!” exclamations and eye rolling. As long as there is no one looking, and I don’t make a big deal out of it, I still get my morning hug.
But squeezy buns are definitively off limits.
When the twins were toddlers, we developed a game called “squeezy buns”. With bubble bath toddler hydrotherapy looming, we would take off the days accumulations of juice spills, dirty knees and formula and get them down to their diapers. While cuddling these warm wriggly cherubs, I would announce “It’s time for SQUEEZY BUNS!!” This for some reason would make them squeal with laughter and jump for joy. The diapers would come of and I would chase them down the hall squeezing dual sets of the cutest bottoms on the planet. It became a request as they learned to speak. On a couple of occasions, they even consulted one another in twin speak and turned to me saying “Do bums, Mommy!”
Their laughter during those years created a lot of fairies.
As the years flew by, squeezy buns mutated into a debate with my son. I would insist that they were my squeezy buns and he would adamantly deny they were anyone but his. Even that is met with an eye roll and worse if anyone else is present. I would invoke my inner Jewish mother, “Oye how I suffered to bring those buns into the world. For that alone, they are mine!!”
“Nice try, Mom. It doesn’t work”
Definitely not my property any more. I can’t even tease him about it.
But I can cook. I can fill his tummy with as much pan seared love as I can get my hands on. I show him that way as I look to through my mind’s stereopticon into those moments not so long ago listening with my heart to the laughter.
It makes me poignantly aware of how far we have come and how little is left until their wings unfold.
Sigh. Thank you. Do you want cheese on that?