A cry from the dark, a pause, followed by the unmistakable slap of bare feet on floor boards. My gaze slides from desperate tears of a courtroom liar to hang expectantly in the hall way. here they come now, green pyjamas smothered in spiders staggering toward me. I look at my boy, an island of testosterone in a sea of pink.
I remember earlier in the week when he walked into the room were I was sitting. Chocolate infused saliva coating the hairs on his top lip, jolting my senses with a premonition of his older self. Wiping of the offensive moustache I took note of his face. It has changed, only a thin layer of infancy pudginess hangs about his appearance, the angular features of a boy child are sneaking through. They assert their presence around his eye sockets across the smooth surface of his brow and at the intersection of his jaw and neck.
Soon the comforting familiarity of strollers and shoulder rides will be behind us. Shunned in favour of another mode of transport, skate boards and scooters, rollerblades and bikes. The rites of passage of the male one.
Do I worry to much about his wild side. Do I subconsciously compare him to the tutus and fairy wings? Should I stop myself from cringing when Lego blocks are fashioned into weapons and cushions become a den in which to do battle. Should I be fostering his independence more than I do, should I be pushing him to try when all I want to do is scoop him up and whisper in his ear, "Stop, stay, don’t change".
But now in this moment, I can push these thoughts aside. Now in this moment when the images from a dream, to terrifying to speak of, still swim in front of his tearful eyes. Now I don’t need to fear his future, now I need to comfort his present self. Hold his hot and shaking body close, wrap my arms around him as he nuzzles in under my chin and curls himself echidna style into a ball on my lap. Now he still needs his Mummy.
"Are you still scared?" I ask as his breath deepens.
No sound just a quick nod of his head.
I wonder over the day, searching for a catalyst for dreams so nasty. "Oh" thinks the voice inside my head, "it could be from the moment when his curious hands slid beside the fridge at my parents house and he suddenly and dramatically learnt the function of a mouse trap" I replay the images of panic stricken flapping hands, mmm, maybe I’ll hold off on fostering that independence just a little longer.
