One of my favorite episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm is the one where Larry is about to fall off a roof, so he hangs onto his assistant’s bare muffintop for dear life. His feet were dangling while his hands desperately clung to both sides of her bulging spare tire that she had been proudly displaying at work.
Today Ellis used my hair to keep himself from falling when he had helped his juicy self to a piggyback cuddle when I was seated on the floor, while his big bro had occupied my front.
These days, whenever my kids see me sitting on the floor (or resting in any form), they rush over and fight for my lap. Or, if they are feeling zen about my lap already being occupied by the other, one will graciously piggyback himself onto my back.
But today’s acrobatics ended in pain. Mine. I shrieked and my eyes teared up. But for little dude, it wasn’t no thang. He laughed. Mommy is always there to lend a helping hand. Or hairs.
After dinner tonight, Micah helped himself to a small dessert his Daddy had brought me as a pick-me-up. Micah went to town on them, with no shame, with a chocolate mustache and one word requests of “More?”
This is just what they do these days. Help themselves to whatever it is that’s mine. My body, my privacy, my time, my chocolate-covered strawberries, my chips. Of course sometimes I wish that I could just have some peace or some PIECE of my own food but generally, I love how they are so entitled.
I think it is BEYOND beautiful. They are so confident and secure in Mommy’s love that, of course, they are entitled to anything and everything of hers. My body is theirs; after all, they lived in it for nearly 39 weeks each. My boobs were theirs up until 13 and 14 months old for Micah and Ellis, respectively.
I am floored by the beauty of their presumptuousness that what’s mine is theirs. At my age, I cannot think of ANYONE I can be THAT comfortable with other than perhaps my husband and my parents. Although, even with my own parents, I am too grown to take what’s theirs. Especially as they age, I feel I should be providing for them more. And even with close friends, I try to be a polite guest, not overstay my welcome, or otherwise impose on them, unless they insisted I eat off their plate.
That is what I’m marveling at these days. It never crosses their three-year-old and 18 month-old minds that they may be inconveniencing me in the least.
They are polar opposites from their grown Mama. I am working up the nerve to ask for help from people in my church community and it makes me SO uncomfortable.
If anyone helps me out in any way, I feel that:
I owe them,
or they now have something to lord over me,
or that I’ve burdened them.
I excessively thank people all the time because I feel indebted. Even for something as simple as holding the door open for me and the boys in their doublestroller.
My kids will grow up and learn about boundaries and about reading people, about how you can’t just take. So for now, I will thoroughly enjoy their brazen claims on my green juice, my miso soup, my face, my lap, my boobs, and even my hair to catch their fall.
But I draw the line at my love handles being used as a lifesaver. Because after their precious lives have been spared, I would have to go and jump off a roof my damn self.