Oh, every time I think that I am past my post departum depression, something happens to remind me just how much I still miss those Mommy days!
I walked into a clothing store this morning, looking for some end-of-summer sales. As I came through the door and into the brightly lit entryway, I immediately heard the sound of a child in the throes of a major tantrum. A little child.
The voice was raspy, with the sub-sub-subbing breath of someone who has been crying for a while. As I walked past the stroller, where a red-faced Mom was trying to calm the outburst, I peeked in to see the culprit. He was a little boy, about three years old, with golden hair in sticky fingered disarray. His eyes were big and bright and very, very wet.
I walked past the anxious Momma and her boy, heading for a rack of marked down skirts and dresses. As I passed, my eyes met those of another slightly older woman, and we exchanged bemused smiles. “Brings back memories!”, I said cheerfully, and she laughed.
And that’s the problem: it did.
The little boy began to cry again, calling, “Mommy! Noooo! Stop, Mommy, stop!” He sounded both exhausted and overwhelmed; it was clear that he had lost all control, and was going to have to just cry himself out.
He sounded exactly like my middle child at the same age. The husky voice and golden hair, the big eyes and sweet face. All I could think of was my little boy. My golden baby, who turns 22 years old tomorrow.
As crazy as it sounds, as crazy as it is, I wish I could hear him having a tantrum one more time. I wish I could be the Mommy who would hold and comfort that little sob wracked body once the storm had passed.