Since I started working over 40 hours a week, my husband has taken over some of the household duties.  Yesterday, he did the grocery shopping.  It kind of made my heart melt.

His greatest assistance has come with the takeover of getting the eight year old to bed.  Most of my work is done in the evening, so while I am clicking away on my computer my husband deals with the stall-tactics, the decision of which book and stuffed animal to take to bed and the newest thing to throw a wrench into the routine…SpongeBob mouthwash.

My husband has managed, after a long day at work, to turn this time into something fun.  There are races to the top of the steps, shoulder rides and the Mom’s-chest-pain-inducing-toss-the-tiny-kid-onto-the-bed-from-across-the-room-adventure.

So with all of these shenanigans, it was no surprise the other night to hear my son declare, “Daddy!  Let’s play the opposite game.”  My husband was quick to oblige.

I laughed as I listened to them go back and forth, with my husband telling our son to, “Hold your pee”, “Put your clothes on” and “Don’t brush your teeth”.

My son answered all yes-questions with a firm, “No” and everything that should have been a denial was met with a jolly, “Yes!”

As usual, my husband had turned bedtime into something giggle inducing.

After a few minutes, I heard my husband say, “Okay, buddy.  Don’t say goodnight to your mother.”

Which is when the game came to an abrupt halt.

Because as I climbed the stairs to meet my son halfway, he greeted me with a smile and outstretched arms for a big nighttime hug and he said, “Good morning, Mom.  I hate you so much.”

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Although my son will be nine years old in the spring, he still needs our help when he’s taking a shower.  After he has cleaned his body, one of us goes in to aide him in washing his hair.  Because he is on his second set of ear tubes and doesn’t hear well, we do our best to keep dirty water and shampoo from entering his ear canals.

The other night, I walked into the bathroom and asked, “Are you ready for me to wash your hair?”

Which is when I realized that he’s eight years old going on adulthood, because when I pulled back the shower curtain I saw him standing with his hand outstretched in my direction as he said, “Hey, Mom!  Pull my finger.”

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Last night, I looked into the bathroom to see my little boy brushing his teeth.  He was wearing his faded, outer-space pajamas with the rockets all over them.  On his feet were hand-me-down, rain boots that are, at least, two sizes too big, but they look like the boy’s boots from The Polar Express so the extra toe space isn’t really what matters.

I walked up behind him, leaned over and, without a word, gave him a kiss on the top of his head.

He looked over his shoulder at me and with his mouth sloshing with toothpaste said, “I love you too, Mom.”

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