I was warming up some soup for Calvin just now--beef barley, his favorite. While I was standing there at the stove, stirring, he sidled up to me and started pulling on my arm. I'm used to this, it means "follow me to the thing I want you go get/do for me." So I said, "Not right now, Cal, I'm making your soup."
But he tugged on my arm again anyway, calmly though, not so much demanding as inviting. Then reached up to my shoulder, pulling downward, and it finally dawned on me that he wasn't trying to pull me away, or toward something he wanted. He was pulling me down to his level...so we could be face to face.
Then he proceeded to plant a gentle kiss on my lips.
Then he said "Lubboo."
Then he smiled at me.
Then he put his arm around my hips and rested it there for a few beats.
Then he ambled along to the table to wait for his soup. All the while wearing his school-bus-yellow noise-blocking earmuffs that make him look like he should be waving at planes from a tarmac.
So there I was, left holding my wooden spoon, stirring what turned out to be my favorite can of soup I've ever made in my life. Not wanting to move even an inch away from that spot until every last particle of sensory input he'd just provided had time to spiral through me like a warm current and become a permanent part of my soul.
Because moments like this come along to remind us that we can do this. In our own imperfectly stellar way. And when they come, it's probably a good idea to hang on with all we've got and never EVER let them go.
I lubboo too, sweet boy.
Now eat your soup.
