He's sitting on the toilet for the second time in 20 minutes. It's a half hour past his bedtime and I'm wondering when I might possibly get to my own bed with a good book and quiet and a chance to be horizontal. I'm tired from the day's antics, including the massacre of moths that occurred in our fireplace when Danny decided to turn the fire on to see what would happen to 3 dozen moths trapped inside. It wasn't pretty.
I quietly remind myself that someday I'm going to miss this.
”Owie!” Holding up his finger.
A new try at a reason to avoid bed and quiet.
I kiss his owie and tell him to hurry up and ”make the pee go out.”
Someday potty talk will end. Maybe by the time he's 17. Maybe.
”Mama, I need nam-aid.”
”I need nam-aid!”
”Um, I'm sorry. I still don't know what you want. Please make the pee go in the toilet.”
”Mama, I need NAM-AID!!”
And suddenly the realization that he wanted a bandaid and the extreme cuteness of his pronunciation of the word completely took over. The toilet and all pretenses of getting back to bed quickly were abandoned.
After all, he needed a nam-aid, and someday, I'm gonna miss this.