I tiptoe into your room every night, and it’s never to whisper, “For the last time, untangle your underwear from your pants legs before you put them in the laundry basket.”
Just before midnight, I stand beside your bed and not once have I come there to say, “Did you put something down the toilet again? Because it is clogging up and I sweartogod if I have to replace another toilet it is coming out of your college fund.”
In the soft glow of your night light, my finger reaches out to trace the perfect curve of your cheek and I don’t ask, “Why are you so sticky?”
I tuck the covers around you without saying, “You’re not even supposed to have Go-gurts in your room. We don’t want ants.”
I push the dark curls off your forehead and it’s never crossed my mind to take this opportunity to say, “Cough into your elbow!”
And every night, every single night of your life, I stand there in the dark and whisper, “I love you sooooo much.”
Every day I tell you that too. But at night, I tiptoe into your room to remind myself what a miracle you are. And how lucky I am to be your mother.
But honestly, what is that smell?