DIY

This morning while Sacha and I snuggled and watched television, he took my hands, which were folded around his middle, and guided them toward his groin. Being a person of sound judgment and a respecter of boundaries, I resisted his request. He, in turn, resisted my resisting, and so our hands remained suspended, as if subject to the force of magnetic repulsion.

I am quite familiar with the sight of my son's naked form, and consider it a thing of great beauty. I have laid hands on him countless times, as I've snuggled and bathed and otherwise groomed him. I will continue to rub his feet and goose his bum, kiss, hold, hug and squeeze him, for many years to come. I expect I will still want to do these things long after he no longer needs my assistance.

But Sacha, as adorable I think your penis is, I do not, under any circumstances want to touch it.

Some time—not until your late teenage years, if I have any say in the matter—you will no doubt find yourself a friend with whom you will spend hours happily fondling one another. Until then, I'm sorry son, but you'll just have to do it yourself.

The object of his affection

One of Sacha's most endearing qualities is that he is unabashedly, effusively affectionate. He declares his love for me at reliable intervals throughout the day; when I greet him in the morning; when I unbuckle him from his car seat; when I wipe his ass, and always, with pitch-perfect timing, when his siblings are getting a tongue lashing.

I see his constant reassurance that I am indeed, the only mom for him as karmic payback for putting up with his ball busting ways.

Or so I thought until the day in December when he leaned in close to our babysitter, and said, "I love you."

While I know the day of reckoning will come when my son transfers his affections to a suitable mate, I thought I was secure for a few more years.

Yet had I known what was on the horizon, I would have been grateful that he'd expressed ardor for a sentient creature, because yesterday, Sacha plucked from his mouth a straw on which he'd been chewing, looked at it tenderly, and said, in his best moony voice, "I love you."

I felt betrayed. Yes, it was a perfectly nice straw, but aside from a willingness to be masticated, I can't imagine what it had over me, HIS MOTHER. I gave him life, nurse him through all manner of illness. I tolerate his crap, and come back for more. And for this, he declared his affection for an inanimate object.

No sooner had he declared his affection than he began asking the straw, "What do you want from me; what do you want from me? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!?"

Secure in the knowledge that the relationship had soured, I gave them a few more minutes. Once he had reduced the straw to a pulpy mass, I led Sacha to the trash can, and told him it was time to say good-bye. He tossed the straw in without question.

Thus concluded my son's first love affair, with a minimum of drama and heartbreak. The episode reminded me that while I am infinitely glad to be his mother, and he will no doubt have a fascinating love life, I would not want to be his wife.