Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Mr. Close Talker

I have a benign growth, and its name is Owen. There are days where I feel like I. Can. Barely. Breathe. This two year old with an Oedipal complex will not give me my personal space.

Case in point: I'm nursing Joel, itself a reasonably intimate event. Owen pokes his head between my legs, turns, and stands two centimeters from my eyes. I can hear his shallow breathing.

"What are you doing, Mommy?"

"Feeding Joel."

"No Feed Joel. Play with Owen."

"I need to feed Joel."

(Shallow breathing). "What's that on your teeth?"

"Nothing." He parts my lips and rubs his dirty finger on an incisor. I would stop him, but I'm spending all of my energy protecting Joel's young noggin.

"You have dirt on your teeth." Okay, so maybe I haven't brushed for a few hours, but dirt? Really?

"Thanks, Owen."

(Shallow breathing) "What are you doing, Mommy?" At this point, I'm thinking, "Go away! Go away! Go away! You're a parasite---walls are closing in----aggghhhh! Just leave me alone!"
Throughout this, Joel is chowing down like my breasts are his own, personal all-you-can-eat buffet (which, really, I guess they are).

"What do you think I'm doing, Owen?"

No response. He rubs my cheek. "Nice beard."

"Thanks, buddy. Will you please leave Mommy alone for a minute?"

"No leave Mommy alone." He then attempts to climb into my lap.

And truly, Paul wonders why I don't like it when he puts his feet on my lap when we're on the couch. I'm not asking for too much. Just for five minutes where nobody is in my space.

No comments: