Sometimes I lie in bed in the morning and calmly think “It might not seem like it now, but we’re already late.” And within twenty minutes all hell breaks loose and I’m throwing shoes and socks at kids while I bark orders like “Did you brush your teeth? Come breathe on me so I can check.”
On one particular crazy morning, I had the boy in the typical teeth brushing headlock and through toothpaste foam he whispered “I hate this thing on my face”
“What thing, pal? Also we don’t say ‘hate.’ That’s not a nice word”
“I don’t like this freckle on my face” he said as he pointed to the first freckle that every showed up on his sweet little face.
In that moment, a thousand panicked thoughts raced through my mind
Is someone making fun of him at school? Why would he say something like that? Have we already started the phrase where other kids pick out your features and tease you relentlessly for them? Oh Dear God, I am not prepared for this stage of life. Please, Lord, give me strength to not hunt down some five-year-old on the playground and release my inner Mamma Bear because he or she has made fun of my baby. Where is my husband? He needs to hold me back before I do something crazy!
I broke out of my insane inner dialogue when he scrubbed that freckle harshly with his fingernails.
“Buddy, Mommy LOVES that freckle. It’s my absolute favorite freckle on you. It’s just like my freckles. See?” as I point to a face covered in freckles from years of sun worship. Even though these days I cover everyone within a 400 yard radius of me with heavy-duty sunblock, I’ve learned to embrace my freckles (mainly because they hide zits and wrinkles).
A Mommy Light Bulb Moment hits me,” I’ve got an idea! What if we name your freckle? That would be so silly! What do you think we should name this freckle?”
“Boobies,” he says through a smirk.
“Bobbies,” he repeats but this time through a straight face.
And just like that, I am brought back from my crazy Mamma Bear rants and reminded that my sweet boy who has inherited my freckle face has inherited his father’s sense of humor. Boobies are funny when you’re five and still funny when you are 35.
“We are most certainly NOT naming your freckle Boobies,” I argue only to hear my daughter chanting “Boobies, boobies, boobies!” behind us.
“STOP! No more boobies!” I yell!
“Boobies” he whispered and rushed to get his socks and shoes on for school.
Days later, I still have no idea why he suddenly became self conscience of that freckle, and if you ask him what his freckle’s name is, he’ll tell you. So this growing pains moment was totally saved not because of my parenting expertise but because of boobies.