Love and Waffles

We need to get a lock on our bathroom door.  Our house is old and apparently back then people either left their doors open, or the kids were just born knowing what privacy meant.  My boys are deficient in the privacy awareness gene. For example, Jack was punished yesterday for streaking...outside.  They just think that being naked is funny. It makes me laugh too, but for obvious reasons he had to be reprimanded.  I was in the bathroom, dealing with my monthly female issue.  On a side note, after ever child I have been rewarded with a heavier period. As if my body was trying to put an exclamation point of relief each time there wasn't a baby in it.  Now after the fourth baby my middle name might as well be Flo.  So I was trying to deal with this and my second son walked in to discover some evidence in the toilet.  You would have thought that he walked into a CSI crime massacre. His alarm is justified, considering we determine the severity of an injury by the amount of blood it produces. To my knowledge he hadn't seen that amount in one place....ever.  He screamed what is that!?  As I slammed the door shut, he spoke to me through the door. Do you need a band aid??  This isn't the first time he had seen some feminine hygiene products before but I have gotten away with explaining that it was makeup or nail polish. That is my answer for everything I don't want them to touch. (Make up is for girls and nail polish stinks.)  I told him to go away and that I needed privacy.  When I came out he was sitting on my bed. Along with this monthly gift I get an added bonus in the form of killer cramps. And I mean these cramps have fangs. So I have been using a heating pad when I find a brief moment to sit down.  He looked like he had figured it all out, the blood, the heating pad, my irritable mood, yep. I was going to die.  I knew that this issue was not going to be consoled with the make up excuse and I was not about to tell him about a woman's cycle. I just explained that it was normal and not to worry about it because it was not fatal.  Although I would guess Don would beg to differ. He prides himself in predicting the exact date my period will start based on my increased ability to "bitch" at him.  But if there wasn't anything to "bitch" about to begin with... his "argument" has holes in it. Its the classic chicken and egg story.  That night, before I put the boys down, Finegan came to me and asked what my favorite breakfast was, I told him oatmeal. He told me he wanted to make me breakfast in bed the next day and to remind him.  I said ok and figured it was a fleeting thought.   While doing my usual nighttime rounds to be sure all the doors are locked and the boys have not strangled themselves with their bed sheets, I notice a Sticky note next to his bed. " make mommy breakfast". Next to the stairs another note read " breakfast for mommy" I felt the lump in my throat as I fought back a Niagara of tears as to not appear too emotional but I felt  my heart had melt a bit .  It wasn't mothers day or my birthday and to my knowledge he hadn't done anything wrong.  I figured that he was just showing his love for me.  I went to bed with a towel under my body...when I say heavy.. I mean heavy.  At 4 :45 a.m. I hear Finegan attempting to wake Don up.  After the 3rd and failed attempt I asked Fin what he needed. He came over to my side of the bed and said he wanted to make me breakfast. I said that I really appreciated it, but given that it was before the sunrise, I wasn't hungry.  He seemed to accept that and went back to bed.  At 7 :00 I was re- awakened with two frozen eggo waffles topped with frozen blueberries.  Before I start to wonder if has lost his mind and any recollection of anyone eating frozen waffles, ( and enjoying it) I remember rule number three in our house.  Don't touch the toaster or put anything into the toaster, for any reason.  Fin isn't strong enough to pour a full gallon of milk without spilling it. So he made due with the best he could.  He watched me take every single bite as if he had made them from scratch. By this time he had gotten his brothers involved and I had a little audience.  Frozen waffles never tasted so good, especially without syrup.   But my expression was magnified 100x in their eyes.  When I was finished they even took the plate.   I noticed that he was my shadow most of the morning and being extra helpful. Finally when he told me he wanted me to have his beloved dolphin that was given to him, I asked him what was up.   With complete sincerity he told me he didn't want me to die.    His first glimpse into the realm of estrogen had deeply freaked him out. It all became clear to me.  I hugged him and said that I was ok. I also explained that I had seen on the news that people are living to be 100 more and more and that the person or people that are going to live to be 150 have already been born.  He loves numbers so I continued. I also explained that I was 27 when I had him and if I lived to be 125 he would be.....I had to think for a second and he exclaimed "98!"  Yes.. I knew that.  So I told him by the time he was 98 and I was 125 we would be so old that we wouldn't even know who was the mommy and who was the son anymore and he would probably be changing my diapers..  He laughed and seemed pacified. I was touched that his way of showing his love for me was a unique glimpse into how he knows he is loved.  Although laying out their clothes every day and making them breakfast gets mundane and even overwhelming at times, there is a much more significant purpose to these chores that, up until now, I had overlooked.  Every single day that they get dressed and eat their breakfast, they are reassured that I love them.   A simple necessary gesture speaks to them in ways that make sense to them. I spend endless hours telling them I love them and all this time it was just a waffle that made them feel it.