A Moment with Asher

I pick him up from his crib and he says “Hi,” dragging this one beautiful word out with a tender tinge of baby-talk sweetness. He puts those chubby little arms around my shoulders and he squeezes. We breathe each other in. Then he lets go, tilting his head back to look at me, as if he’s checking to see if I’m the same. His Mama. And I answer “Hi, sweet baby, how are you?”

He chuckles a deep, throaty little chuckle, and smiles into my eyes.

I feel as if my heart might burst with love. Surely it could.

But instead, he rears back and BAM, head-butts me square in the nose.

I nearly drop him as the pain screams through my face, racing under my eyes and ringing in my ears. I set him down on the floor and check for blood. I’m shocked! There’s no blood. But oh holy cats, it hurts!

I look down at the culprit, his big bald head gleaming atop that round face with those big, sparkly blue eyes and that button nose. He lets out another throaty laugh. Then suddenly, he moves on, distracted by a tiny dust bunny slowly rolling past his pudgy little toes. He has one finger in his mouth, while drooling out of the corner of that tiny little mouth.

He’s making it really hard to be mad at him, down there on the floor, all wrapped up in his adorableness.

But he looks quite proud of himself. So I know this is a teaching moment, and I put on my thinking cap. You have to keep going through the pain, people. If you’re going to be an effective parent, you simply must soldier on.

I pick him up and say, “Asher, be gentle to Mama.” Then I gingerly turn my head toward his and bonk him ever so lightly. We bang our heads together gently several times as I repeat, “See, this is how we bump heads,” in a gentle, hushed tone.

He peeks at me out of the corner of his eye. Yes, the look he gives me seems to say, “I understand the lesson, dear Mother.”

(I can tell by the little smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.)

If he could speak English, he would add, “I understand, Mother. I understand. I will never try to break your nose again.”

Yes. I am a brilliant teacher. An excellent parent. All in a day’s work, people. All in a day’s work.

Now excuse me, I need to go ice my nose.
update: my nose is fine, really! You all are too kind in the comments. I’m being dramatic on purpose in this post. I have a strange sense of humor. I really don’t mean it when I say that stuff about “a lesson in excellent parenting.” I promise I’m not the most arrogant person on the planet, I’m just making fun of the situation. Maybe you knew this, so I’ll stop explaining now :) But thanks for all the compliments on my parenting skills anyway!