The smile's worth a thousand memorie

Over hot chocolate this crisp morning, already well past nine, and well beyond when he's usually up and at school, we made the executive decision that he could stay home, but, we had some things to discuss, and then do.

I added marshmellows to the mugs, and blundered on.

It was time, I said, to loan out the toddler bed - our beloved fire truck bed. Cooper had outgrown his crib, and Liz was playing havoc keeping him in it, and away from the window treatments he so dearly loves to pull down...so I naturally offered up the fire truck bed.

To my astonishment, he agreed. Only caviot? Keep the sheets, his special sheets, with the doggies on them. I agreed readily.

And then, I went into the attic, off my closet, and pulled out the pieces, one by one, carrying them, noting the dust, and the missed spots of dried on whatever that accumulates in the attic, only to meet H at the top of the stairs: him pulling his crib mattress behind him.

The eyes widened. The mouth dropped.

My Inner Mom swore.

Evidently, I was not clear enough. Which I stated, once we got cozy on my bed, against the pillows, so we could discuss this whole idea all over again.

"N. O. Spells NO mommy. I choosed NO."

I asked him to take a deep breath, stop screaming at me, (though I'm impressed with his spelling abilities, should you be interested to note) and use his words. We could talk about this. But I couldn't possibly understand him, if he's crying like a bereaved widow.

He said, "I'm not ready to give up the smile."

"What smile?"

"The Truck Smile". (add in that You Total Moron Voice)

And it all came tumbling after: how that truck smiled at him, everynight at bedtime; how he recalls Mommy and him going to buy it, at the baby store, when he was leaping out of his crib, and daddy came home early to build it with me. He remembers being 14 months old, even the color of the fleece he had on, as it was chilly that day, and how he cried thinking it was broken, because it came in a box, and not like it was shown on the floor. And how even now, when he goes to bed (read: IF he goes to bed) he thinks about that smile, on the outside of the truck.

How that was when we lived in the Ugly House, that had all the work done to it, but when we all lived together. It's a very special truck bed.

Can we say gobsmacked?

Thought we could.

I embarked on what I thought was an amazing line of conversation: how memories live in our hearts, not in our belongings, and that nothing will take away how he felt laying in that bed, how loved, and cherished, and chosen that bed was. And he was. How he still is loved like that, just in two places, instead of one. That letting Cooper sleep in that bed to feel that way too, about the smile, was the bestest gift ever, cuz he's just little still, and scared of being by himself, and Jack (the bed's name) would keep him safe, and company, just like it did him, when he was little.

We talked about how growing up can be very scary, and adults are scared too - of bugs that are really big, and the wind noise on stormy nights; how sometimes, we want to be little too, and live with our mommies, to care for us. We sat there, for a good while, til he matched up our toes, to see how much longer he had to grow before he "outgrew" me - only to find, he thinks, that his feet may be bigger, but he'll want me around for a long time.

I make great pancakes.

Sitting there, amid pillows and dog fur, unmatched socks and his tissues, I realized two things - he big enough to tell me how he feels, and, he's still big enough to cry when he's sad. He still thinks I'm his bestest bestest friend.

We decided that growing up can be wicked tough; but new movies sure took some of the sting out of it.

We bought Shrek2 in memory of Jack, and watched it tonight. Stayed up late in fact to finish it.

Big Boys get to do that, you know.