It's Valentine's Day. Candy hearts, cards, flowers, cuteness everywhere. And, because it's Valentine's Day, I'm reflecting on my new definition of love. It is not candy hearts, cards, flowers, and cuteness everywhere.
Yesterday, R.J. tested me. And retested. He snuggled with me in bed for a nap. He sang. He clapped. He wrapped his entire body around my head. He put his knee in my face. He flipped. And flopped. He did not sleep. After an hour and a half, I snapped. I sent him to the kitchen to play with his grandma. He didn't go--at least not without mommy.
He fussed about lunch: "I don't like noodles a lot," he told us. This from the child who subsists on pasta.
We went back for the nap. Another 40 minutes. Finally, sleep. He is cuteness when he is sleeping. Unfortunately for me, the cuteness was short lived. He was up in half an hour. We packed our bags, and we made the drive home. He's a talker. Not just a talker--a talker who is genetically related to the Cartwrights. He does not stop. He talked about every. single. truck. He talked about every. single. song.
By the time we arrived home, I was done. Finished. Silence is not golden. It is platinum. With diamonds.
At night, R.J. winds down. He wants Mommy. "I love you," he starts off the nightly routine. "I love you too," I say. "I love Mommy," he clarifies. "And I love R.J.," I clarify right back. This goes on until finally, when he's had enough, he tells me, "Ok, you love me."
And I do. Love isn't candy hearts, cards, and cuteness everyone. It is the patience that only a mother's heart can hold. It is slobber toddler kisses and nose rubs. It is my R.J.
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