I sit in our red easy chair, a cup of coffee (cream, no sugar) next to me, Kindle in hand, to finish the book I've been reading. I've reached that spot in the book where I know I can complete it in an hour or so, and I've decided it's worth it to procrastinate on a bath and other necessary tasks.
Zoodle saunters in, still wearing his flannel Elmo pajamas. (Yes, he sometimes wears flannel in the summer; he likes to pick his own PJs.) He climbs up in the chair next to me, and he curls up comfortably next to me, his back leaning against me. He hasn't learned to be self-conscious with his affection yet, and his little warm body molds to mine in a way that I treasure.
"Mommy," he says, "Can I have...can I have...can I have...." He repeats this over and over, trying to decide what he wants to ask for. I glance back at my Kindle, but then remind myself that this morning I want to be patient with my kids, and enjoy them. I look at him, and listen.
Finally, he says, "Can I have American Elmo?" He giggles, and I do too. This is one of his bits of comedy these days, replacing the appropriate word with a silly one.
After we've both appreciated his humor, I ask, "Do you want American cheese?"
"Yeah" (with a smile.)
I agree, and he gets up and runs to the refrigerator.
"Will you get me one too?" I ask.
"Yeah." He comes back with two. "One for you," he says, handing me one, "and one for me."
I pull the plastic off my cheese, and say, "Do you want this one?"
"No," he says with a sweet patience that I want to share, "that one is yours." I pucker my lips, and he gives me a kiss. I smile and take his cheese, and peel the plastic off. I hand it to him, and he runs back to where he and Chickie have been playing a computer game together.
The moment is over, but it was a special one, and I want to remember it. Three magical minutes with a three-year-old.