The Blanket Roll Snuggle: One Long Ago Memory
Neil began waking David up in the morning about a year and a half ago. I gladly relinquished the responsibility, deciding that I had pulled out enough of my hair in the morning waking up my then third-grader and trying to hustle him out the door by 8:30. Getting David up was my first major challenge of the day; I'd spend ten minutes pulling off his covers while he kept pulling them back over his head, and my vocal aerobics seemed to do nothing more than blend together as background noise into David's ears. It took twenty minutes to get him out of whatever he had worn to bed the night before and into his clothing—coaxing him, cajoling him, pleading with him, and finally, when all else failed, yelling at him—as he dawdled while donning his clothes one piece at a time.
Neil's approach is as different from mine as maple syrup from red vinegar. I didn't believe in rude awakenings: I'd take a moment, soaking up the sweet serenity in David's face as he slept, before nudging David out of his dreams. But Neil doesn't waste time; he savors no moment. Like a Drill Sargeant, he doesn't hesitate barking commands to take off PJs, put on socks, and, every once in a while grumble, "David, now!" Without so much as a groan or whimper, David finishes dressing in less than five minutes, before Neil sends him on his way into the bathroom.
I remain in bed, listening to the door on his side of the bathroom squeal open; my presence is no longer needed to help David begin his morning bathroom routine, though he can still use some coaching. I can follow his every movement by both sound and silence. The bouncing of the cold toilet seat against its lid echoes off the bathroom tiles just before his steady stream rushes into the bowl. He yawns a breathy yawn of youth, still free of adult worries and woes. Then there's the muffled snap of the elastic on his sweatpants around his waist, but no flush of the toilet or slap of the seat back down against its rim; he was toilet trained during the drought when "yellow was mellow" and never picked up the habit of flushing. As for the seat, I often wonder if there isn't some genetic trait in males which causes SLAS (Seat Lowering Aversion Syndrome).
David's next stop is the sink. He pauses before turning on the faucet, waiting to hear Neil’s wheelchair whiz across the living room’s hardwood floor before making his exit as he slams shut the front door. He's making sure his dad won't catch him pumping a mound of toothpaste on his toothbrush and then rinsing most of it off before putting it in his mouth. Moments later, the bristles brush against his teeth, as faintly as a cat's timid scratches on a screen door.
"Remember the inside," I mumble my weak attempt of supervision. The hollow sounds of a quick inside-the-mouth brushing drift into my room, followed by a few swishes and spits before the water from the faucet ceases to flow. Seconds of silence follow as he checks himself out in the mirror and dries his lips with the sleeve of his over-sized t-shirt. Soon after, his white-socked feet thump across the bathroom linoleum and pad their way into my carpeted, shade-drawn bedroom.
Still nestling under the cover on the farther side of the bed, I sense David's presence. He smooths the thick comforter over the pale pink sheet - where his father had slept - before lying down on top of the bed, very close to its edge. Then, grabbing the end of the blue flannel comforter cover, he rolls himself to me - a little piglet in a blanket. My arm eases around him as we snuggle into the curves of each other's bodies - the thick blanket material setting the boundaries between a growing ten-year old boy and his mother.
I can pretend, at these moments, he is still my little boy; the baby with soft, round cheeks I used to cuddle with in bed too many years ago. I can blot away last night's argument with him - his tone on the verge of adolescent annoyance - as I attempted to explain the right way to load the dishwasher. I'm able to forget those exasperating times that make me threaten to put his dirty socks in his lunchbox when I've told him repeatedly to deposit them in the laundry hamper instead of leaving them wherever they're shed. I erase from my memory the incessant battles we have over going to the newly built library down the street; I'm afraid his brain will turn into mush from too many hours in front of a screen—computer, TV, or otherwise.
His ten-year-old will of iron lies dormant as strands of his fine blond hair peek out through an opening in the blanket and tickle my nose. The hint of his almond scent, mixed with the sweet fragrance of Aqua Fresh toothpaste and VO5 Shampoo, holds only childhood innocence. "How'd you sleep, Cupcake?" I murmur into the thick comforter. He doesn't yet object to the nickname I've been calling him - in private - since he was a baby.
"Good," he replies, lifting the blanket flap from his face to look up at me. His magnetic blue eyes, dusted with yellow specks hold me in their gaze. Coppery lashes flutter with each blink of his eyelids and his nose and cheeks are smattered with kissable freckles. I still become enchanted when I look at him and fight my urge to smother him with hugs and kisses, knowing if I gave in to it, he'd pull away. Instead, I brush his forehead with my lips while my hand firmly rubs his back.
"Are you ready for your music rehearsal today? Did you learn all the words to I Will for the Spring Sing Fling?" I ask, seizing perhaps my only opportunity of the day to be the recipient of his undivided attention.
He proceeds to offer me his own rendition of the Lennon-McCartney classic, adlibbing lyrics in a high-pitched squeal. It begins, "Whose nose is long," and becomes even more absurd as he rambles on.
"Aw, David," I groan, to hide a throaty laugh. "It's such a pretty song. Come on, sing it the way you're supposed to."
But he's intent on finishing, appeasing me by stretching his long, thin arm out of his blanket wrapping and placing his hand on the satiny sleeve of my nightgown. His palm and fingers glide evenly up and down my arm, as gentle and soothing as summer rain.
"Okay, now that you sang it your way, let's hear it the right way," I add, "and in a nice voice." In response, he twists around to check the clock on Neil's nightstand. "Mom," he protests, "it's almost time for Rocky and Bullwinkle!"
"No song, no Bullwinkle."
He knows I have him!
I listen to him sing; the velvet ribbons of his voice wrap themselves around my heart. As he ends the song, I give the blanket roll a loving squeeze. "That's so good David," is all I can say. "I like the way you sing."
He's oblivious to my praise. Wasting no time, he unrolls himself and runs around the wooden bed frame to reach the remote control on my nightstand; he flicks on my TV. With a host of cartoon characters quipping dumb puns from the corner of the room, David returns to bed. He rolls himself up again in the blanket, but this time, his morning-clean, white-socked feet - already young man’s size six - settle under my nose. I give them a final squeeze before I flip back my comforter to get out of bed and transfer into my wheelchair, gracefully accepting my dismissal, and wishing, too, that my blanket roll snuggling days will last just a few more years.
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