I love you too

Since my first day with Shawn Joaquin, I have told him repeatedly, dozens or even hundreds of times every day that I love him. Te amo, mi amor. Mama loves you. Who do I love the most in this world? YOU. He has always replied with an emphatic “yeah-yeah” and a vigorous nod and gone back to chewing on his blanket, carefully arranging his cars, wrestling with his rubber snake or knocking back his milk. The words “I love you” were apparently going to be saved up for a very special occasion.

Last night as I tucked him, I was absolutely overwhelmed with exhaustion from my workweek. I arranged his animals all around him in their exact order, as required and detailed nightly, put the jaguar on its proper place on the windowsill (“I WANT HIM TO WATCH ME ALL NIGHT WITH HIS EYES”), put the small elephant back on the high shelf (“THE ELEPHANT NEEDS TO WATCH ME TOO. WHERE ARE HIS EYES? HIS EYES NEED TO LOOK AT ME”), put the cup of water on the table next to his bed, put on the RIGHT second blanket, turned the car lamp nightlight JUST SO, allowing him to see the headlights, let the roman blinds down, closed the closet door, turned on the train sounds and did the myriad of other little things apparently required for a good night’s sleep in the monkey bed.

After meeting all of the little Napolean’s demands, I closed the door and started down the hall, ready to collapse on the sofa with the remote in hand and the phone ringer turned off. A wail followed me — and inescapable cry that could not be ignored in hopes that it would die down. I went back into his room where he was crying almost inconsolably. “YOU DIDN’T DO IT! YOU DIDN’T DO IT! YOU DIDN’T DO IT!” I looked around the room at all of the things in their places, checked the closet door and adjusted the volume on the train sound machine. After much hiccupping and snorting and mucus flow, he was settled down and I was ready to go again. I leaned down once more to say goodnight and he grabbed my neck and held me fiercely. Before I could say a word, he said with a depth of emotion that only a soulful three-year old could manage “I love you too, Mama.” In that knee-weakening moment, I realized the thing that I didn’t do was say “I love you” before turning out the light. So with the depth of emotion that only a mother hearing “I love you too” for the first time could manage, I choked out “Te amo, mi amor. Te amo.” It was all I could not to lie down with him and reiterate all the promises I hold in my heart for him — to protect him always, to love him always, to be there for him today and tomorrow and for every day that my heart beats.

That moment encapsulated why I am a mother, and why he is the best damn thing I have ever done with my life.