“Where is my mommy stone?†He asks, upper lip quivering. It is bed time. I’ve come to say good night. Then he says, “I love you and I missed you.†He says this often, the latter almost automatically following the former; but it’s also something that must reflect the hunger his little self feels for mommy time. I’m not always available the way I could be—if I were wholly and exclusively focused on being his mother. Selfishly, I take time for me often. I write, I run, I forfeit controlling the circumstance of his days in exchange for time to do my own things.
Now we’re in the semi dark. He’s talking about the small stone I gave him when I went back to work this year. I told him it was a Mommy Stone with kisses in it, to rub on his cheek if he missed me. I don’t know why he’s suddenly thought of it tonight, and seeing him, upper lip trembling, I want to make everything immediately okay.
“I’ll find you another mommy stone and put kisses in it and have it ready for you in the morning,†I rush to offer.
“But how can I see the kisses? How do they get in there?†He is earnest, almost crying, and suddenly I’m over come too. I wrap him in the dark, kissing his cheeks a hundred times, tears suddenly, unexpectedly wet on my cheeks. “You can’t see them, you can feel them when you rub the Mommy stone on your cheek. Because I love you, and I put the kisses in there just for you,†I say.
“Okay,†he says, and then “I love you, I love you mommy.â€
“I love you too, with my whole heart,†I whisper into the air against his cheek.
“I love you, I love you,†he says, his arms wrapped around my neck.