little footsteps following me

My oldest son is five years old and he turns six in less than a month. His entire life he has told me how his dad is his favorite. Number one on his list of favorite people. “You, mom, are number ten.” I’m just happy I made the list.  I’ve come to terms with the fact that he will never tell me that I am number one on that list.

My youngest turns one in less than a month. And I’m the only person on his list. He clings to my pant leg and has to know what I’m doing at all times. Other mothers say that his need for me is normal. But from experience, I know that he is a tad obsessive. I can’t leave the room without his little hands clinging to the gate, or the window, or my pant leg,  with his pouty eyes saying “take me with you.”

When my oldest tells me how much he loves his dad and how much I don’t do what he wants (when he wants it), his mannerisms tell a different story. When I work on photography, he jumps in with massive smiles ready to pose for the camera. When I take time to make a homemade gift, he insists on setting up his craft table filled with glitter, glue and markers.  When I work on a writing project, he pulls out his notebook filled with random words and drawings. Or he tells me an unforgettable story. Sometimes, he will grab his ninja turtle notebook and ask me to write down a story. He tells me so fast that I have to stop him midsentence to ask him to repeat. I’m not supposed to do that because he will forget what happens. I will never be fast enough; and he has no trouble telling me that either.

My youngest is glued to his brother’s stories (as long as I’m in the room). He laughs when his brother talks in a silly voice or runs around the room ranting about something so funny that I can’t help but laugh too.

The oldest decided that he would “write” a story for kid’s radio last spring, on the theme of talking plants. The words flowed effortlessly about these plants. What they said. How it related to his family. He spoke so fast that I had to record him telling me so I could pause to write down every word. I was a little jealous when I spend several hours writing one story and his is done in minutes.  I had trouble leaving in all of the incorrect grammar. C’mon, I know he’s five but I have a degree in Creative Writing. Grammar is in my blood. But it’s in the rules that parents aren’t allowed to change anything. I wrote down every word as he said it and emailed it to the show.

Within weeks it was chosen, and we waited patiently for it to come on the radio. His was the last story aired that day. I panicked because I thought that they ran out of time. How would I explain it to him? But they saved the best for last. And I’d love to share it here with you.

I don’t know if he’ll become a writer but I know he wrote this story for me. I know that when he heard his story on the air, he meant it when he said it was the best day of his life.

You can listen to it here:


About this entry