How I know I love Jonas

Poor Jonas. You may think he’s the neglected middle child. I’ll admit there aren’t as many stories posted about him. And, there haven’t been nearly as many pictures either. The picture thing is easy to explain. He’s a nudist. The story thing is a little harder to explain but basically he’s shy. I was chastised at the doctor’s office for using that word. What I’m supposed to say is “he’s a little slower to warm up.” Whatever. The kid is much more quiet than anyone else in the family. It makes telling a story about him harder because he is all gesture. A man of few words really. The loverhubby and I laugh often at him because he is a total raccoon. He loves to ransack ever nook and cranny, pulling out things, putting them on his head, drawing on his nekkid body, eating random things like baking soda out of the fridge. He loves to pour any kind of liquid into any other container than the one it is in. Much to my annoyance he spills five or six times a day. He’s the boy with rocks in his pockets and half a jelly sandwich hidden under his pillow. Ripped jeans, boogers and fart jokes through and through. And, he’s bound and determined to kill me via heart attack. He’s that son. I understand every mother of boys has a son like that. The daring one who’ll probably end up a free-diver or a base jumper, JUST TO GIVE HIS MOTHER A HEART ATTACK! We recently went to a parade. I turned my back for a split second and he was gone. I cannot even describe the feeling of sheer panic, so scary I was blinded, literally, and could not see him standing 100 feet away from me. I was, I’m not even kidding, blinded by fear. Then last weekend I heard a muffled scream coming from my bedroom. I thought he was locked in a closet and casually crossed the house. Once again my heart stopped when I saw my bedroom dresser tipped over and realized that my 20-pound son was pinned underneath it. My head spinned a horrific picture of him bloody and broken underneath. Kids die from these kinds of parental mistakes and my heart was pounding in terror. I immediately started to cry, pulled the dresser off him, stripped him naked to check for broken bones and internal bleeding. “No tickle me mom,” he laughed. A red shoulder and a teeny tiny scratch on the head. He popped up off the bed and ran away, naked, throwing his Spidy web down the hall. I nearly puked. I checked him over and over, looking searchingly into his big blue eyes for signs of dilated pupils and concussion. Then I mentally yelled at myself for being so stupid. Why didn’t I secure that dresser to the wall? Stupid stupid mom. I could tell you how I kiss Jonas a hundred times a day. How I forgive every milk spill and stained shirt. How when he does speak it is most often to say “I love you” followed by a big hug. These things would be proof of my love for my son. But I think that overwhelming fear, an emotion only a parent would understand, of something terrible happening to him says so much more.