Secretly, I love having a mama’s boy. I love that when he wakes in the morning, he yells out “mommy” on repeat like its 1988 and he just bought the new NKOTB cassette. Step by step, baby!
I love that he hugs me and says “yai yuh yooo”. I love that he hands me a book and wants me to read to him. I love that he lets me sneak in kisses and tummy tickles.
But forgodfuckinsakekidifyoudontletmeshowerbymyselfimightlosemyshit …
I feel bad for Husband. He’s definitely feeling the wrath of unapologetic Mama’s Boy Syndrome happening in our house. Husband looks completely defeated every time Smith reaches for me or refuses to eat oatmeal unless Mommy is within spitting distance. The tantrums are epic. And god forbid anyone other than Mommy reads him a book.
I know there will come a day that he prefers balls (husband’s and soccer ones) over his squishy, kissy face mama. The time will come when he’d rather go for a walk and kick rocks with daddy than bake cookies with mommy (who am I kidding? I buy mine at Publix… this aint no Leave It To Beaver shit). Smith will prefer watching baseball with dad than helping mom wash dishes.
I know this time will pass. And probably far too quickly for my taste, just as quickly as everything else has in the 19 months I have been a parent. But sometimes in the midst of a particularly stressful mama boy moment, I just want to say "dude, your oatmeal is going to taste exactly the same if daddy feeds it to you. I don't have magical mommy dust coming out of my ass that makes everything taste like rainbows."
Instead, I just say FUCK under my breath. To which Smith repeats with perfect pronunciation in his tiniest little voice. I giggle quietly, change topics and go about my business so he doesn't suspect how amazingly awesome, yet completely terrible it is that he said that word.
Only to make him repeat it at bathtime for daddy just so he can hear how silly it sounds.
I wish I were kidding.