Who needs sleep when you can have a son

My Sentiments Exactly

Can you remember what you were doing 21 years ago right now? I can.

I was just trying to get some sleep.

I clearly remember spending the better part of the day simply seeking shut eye.

I hadn’t snoozed in a year (almost), so I was tickled blue (wait for it) that a little catnip got pumped into my IV.

Oh, you see, I was in active labor but not quite ready for, er, primetime.

I kept trying to catch some zzzz’s — but my husband kept tossin’ ’em back into the lake. As in, he screamed repeatedly, “Wow, that was a huge contraction, how can you possibly sleep?” as he studied the fetal monitor to which I was tied, twisted and otherwise tubified.

Um, I can’t. Now.

That’s the day Kyle Kimerer came to be … and I haven’t slept a wink since.

No biggie. Moms can survive on four minutes a day with enough coffee and M&Ms.

That’s one thing I learned since 12.06.99. Here are a few others:

• LOVE. Not that I hadn’t previously loved others truly, madly and deeply, yo. Not that I don’t currently have great affection for and abiding devotion to many of the humans, natch.

But I speak of first thought in the morning, last image in my noggin at night, worry till I can’t breathe, never been more proud, “to the moon and back” is lame, take my last morsel of food, drop of water or unit of oxygen, only the Big Guy means more to me, cannot live on this silly round ball without you kinda love, ya dig? Other Moms do, BT Dubs.

• LOYALTY. Kick me, punch me, treat me like doo-doo — then apologize genuinely? I’ll forgive ya.

Harm my kid within the slightest fraction of a gazillimeter of a hair? I. Will. Cut. You. And, like elephants, mothers NEVER FORGET.

I may be just this side of senile in the short-term recall department (please don’t ask me what I wore to Mass this morning), but I have the name and face of that second-grade playground bully (and anyone else who EVER hurt my offspring) burned into my soul. #ImCominForYouEventually

• PRIDE. The good kind, that is.

Funny, all mothers think THEIR child’s perfect, yet only one of us is correct. I could gush about the brainiac, wildly athletic and artistic, gifted musician I birthed, but that’d be braggadocios, a’ight? Meanwhile, the kind-hearted, respectful, hardworking, prolific, compassionate, intelligent, God-fearing, flipping hysterical grownup I see standing in my kitchen? Meh, he’s OK, I guess.

Did I mention how handsome… OK, too far. #HeIsThough

• PARTYING. Being the only adult to volunteer for kiddy table / room duty seems like a punishment to many. You get “stuck” wiping noses, separating bantam weight fights over Legos, running in 8,567 directions simultaneously and cleaning up all the half-full mashed-up plates or leaky bottles / sippy cups, plus bazillions of sloppily strewn toys, et al, at night’s end.

Then suddenly, POOF, they become grownups and you not only miss diapering, you secretly wish to go back and freeze it all. The days, not the diapers.

• NONNNA WAS RIGHT. Though I thought her kooky, I owe my paternal grandmother an apology for doting disgustingly on Dad.

Yes, I make homemade mac-and-cheese at midnight; drive an extra 142 miles to return a forgotten ID, and / or wash, dry and fold 839 loads of laundry in 5.75 hours without notice. Whatevs. I’d actually be hurt if anyone else did it, capisce? #ItalianMomsAndSons


• Kimerer is a columnist wishing her honey a very happy 21st!


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