Careless Love

I'm careless with my love for my kids. I throw it around like a pizza baker handles his dough, covering their delicious cheeks with kisses whenever I can grab them. I live in fear of the day when they won't want to hold my hand in public, when my sole presence with my will be enough to make them want to die of shame.

Bella grows cooler with each day of second grade, and her eyes roll to the ceiling as the rest of us guffaw when Jack makes a fart joke. But when she moaned, "Am I the only normal person in this embarassing family?" I could see her lips twitching as she stifled her own laugh. I didn't call her out on it, but my heart melted a little to see that my pre-tween could still see the humor in flatulence.

A few days ago, I was enjoying a rare moment of relaxation, basking in the sunshine in the backyard as Jack and Juliette played near me, busy running around collecting precious rocks. Jack paused near me, his face intense as he worked out some private thought. The sun shone through his light brown hair, and I was struck by the beauty of the afternoon.

I reached out to tussle his warm head of hair and said to him,
"Hey Jack, I love you."
He looked up at me, smiled, and said, "I know."
Then he stood there a few seconds longer before adding with an impish smile, "Why wouldn't you?"

And then he ran off with a butterfly into the sunshine and the bright green grass, leaving me chuckling all to myself about these kids of mine growing up surrounded by all this careless love.