The Other Woman

When my youngest son was just a tyke, he'd wake up early on Saturday mornings, sprint the length of the upstairs hallway and burst through the master bedroom doors. He'd leap into bed and jockey his way into position right smack in the middle of the bed, between me and my husband.  

This usually happened well before the sun was up which meant my son, wanting company, would employ all manner of strategies in an effort to awaken us from slumber: breathing in our faces, poking us in various and assorted places, pinching, wet willies, jumping on the bed, tickling, you name it. This became a Saturday morning ritual and on those rare occasions when he found mommy and daddy fully awake, I believe it genuinely disappointed him.

On one Saturday in particular when my son was barely three years old, my husband and l were awakened by the familiar THUD of a toddler flipping himself out of bed onto the floor. As punishment for waking us before we were ready, we decided to have a little fun at his expense.

"Let's pretend to be asleep," I whispered.

"Yeah, get really close so he can't get in the middle this time and see what he does."

We were so amused with this sinister plan to box out our child that we barely kept from laughing. We're not typically mean people, but sleep deprivation can drive one to extreme measures. Anyway, assuming the "spoon" position we braced ourselves for whatever tactics our little assailant might have up his sleeve.

True to form, he raced down the hallway, burst through our bedroom doors, and with a Tarzan-like yodel, leaped across the room plopping squarely on the bed. For several seconds things became eerily silent and since, in mock sleep I was pressing my eyelids tightly shut, I only can speculate that he was standing over us, assessing the situation and plotting his next stage of attack. At first he nudged at us, trying in earnest to roll us apart, but that only served to make my husband tighten his grip on me.

"Move over, Dad."

Silence.

"Move over, Dad. I wanna get in the middle."

Snore.

"Daaad," a frustrated crescendo followed by bouncing on the bed and rhythmic chanting, "Daaad. Move over, Daaad. Move over, Daad. I wanna get in the middle."

More snoring.

In one final bounce, my son propelled himself to the head of the bed. Refusing to accept defeat, he mounted a third assault by wedging himself between us like a human crowbar. He struggled and pushed, inching his way down the length of our bodies until he had fully insinuated himself between us.

"Dad," he grunted with one final strained shove as he accomplished his mission, "go find your own woman. This one's mine."

My son is now 16 years old, a sophomore in high school and it has been more than a dozen years since he staked his claim on me. Thankfully, my husband did not take our son's advice to go find his own woman. Instead, he politely shared me, patiently waiting for the day that he would once again have me to himself.  

It appears that day has come. There are no more Saturday mornings filled with the three of us (or four when our oldest joined the party) snuggling in bed. There are no more one of a kind valentines with "I LOVE YOU" scrawled across giant hearts cut from red construction paper and glued to white paper doilies. There are no more spontaneous compliments -You look pretty, mommy- spoken in a voice yet to drop even just one octave let alone three. There are no more homemade Mothers' Day cards, or gifts of jewelry purchased from grocery store gum ball machines. How I wish I had paid closer attention, once upon a time when these things were plentiful, when I was the center of his universe.  

I am no longer the center of my precious son's universe because at 16, HE is the center of his universe. He no longer waits expectantly for me in the carpool line after school. He no longer flashes that adorable smile the instant he sees me round the corner. He no longer rushes to hug me hello.  

No, no. I am no longer the center of his universe. In fact, I am not even a close second. I am afraid his smile, his hugs, his attentions and affections are reserved for the gaggle of teenaged girls that he defensively asserts are just friends. I wonder how it happened. Wasn't it just last weekend when I heard that strained grunt, "Dad, go find your own woman. This one's mine?" And I have to wonder...when did I become the other woman?