A few weeks ago, while sitting at the supper table, Sid said, “Mama, this supper is so delicious, I could come down there and kiss you.”
“You would walk a whole five feet for THAT?” asked Sidney doubtfully.
“I would walk a whole mile on one toe,” Sid responded gallantly. “And then the kiss would be so beautiful that I would forget how sore my toe is.”
Twenty minutes later, during our kitchen clean-up, this same 11-year-old boy, who seemed to think crossing 5 feet was too far for a kiss, walks over, wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulls me only slightly downward, and places a kiss on my forehead.
Then he goes about his kitchen sweeping.
He always goes about it in an absent-minded way. I suspect he is not fully aware of this habit of grabbing my neck and kissing my forehead, which he picked up from Sid, who is always grabbing me around the neck and pulling me toward him for a kiss too.
Though I sometimes wonder if this whiplash love that my menfolk dole out to me is what keeps my chiropractor in business, I cannot complain. I can only hope that I always have such beautiful suffering in my life.
Prairie Sings 