Sometimes, in a fit of motherly passion, I”ll scoop Sean up and smother him with kisses, telling him he’s so cute that I can’t stand it. And then he squiggles and wiggles out of my arms and runs off, laughing and yelling “Yucky!”
Last week, we were at the grocery store, and as we were checking out, he was chatting up the cashier, a grandmotherly type.
“You’re cute!” she cooed at him as I ran my credit card through the machine.
“Yeah but my mom can’t stand me,” he told her. “She says that all the time.” And then for some reason, he offered her this weird, crooked, sad little smile.
The cashier narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously.
It probably didn’t help that Sean had a dirty face and had dressed himself that morning as a Hip Hop Rap artist on a golf outing.
I shut my eyes and shook my head ever so slightly.
The effort it was going to take to explain that it was the level of his cuteness that I can’t stand vs. him which I can stand very tolerably (sigh), exceeded my mental bandwidth at that particular moment. So I didn’t even try.
I think I exceeded my mental bandwidth just typing that sentence.
In some local ladies Bible study, there’s a Wal-Mart cashier asking for prayers for the little boy whose mother can’t stand him.