I had just come home from an early morning run with a friend. Well, an aborted run. I made it half a block, and my stomach started cramping too bad to continue. So we walked and talked and then I drove home and crashed on my bed, enjoying the cool breeze from the ceiling fan as I tried to calm my queasy tummy.
The Kid, still in his pajamas and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, walked in and curled up next to me, as I related the story of my failed run to his dada.
"Mama, I'm sorry for all of our troubles," he lamented.
My dear boy, who takes on the weight of the world. My sweet son, who responds to difficulty by being unfailingly, irreproachably good.
As he expressed his genuine sorrow for our family's "troubles", visions of children being taken from their parents flashed through my mind. Terrified mamas and terminally sick babies and all of the horrible things. I instantly had to correct him.
"Oh baby, we don't really have any troubles--you know that, right? We have each other and a nice place to live. You and Little Miss get to learn everyday. Mama and Daddy love each other. We are so lucky--you know that, right?"
He screwed up his face to consider the idea, and, after a moment, seemed to tentatively agree. "Yeah, I guess we are probably pretty good."
Indeed, we are.