Kneeling Down

I kneel down beside the edge of the shower, water is pouring down. I swiftly tuck a piece of hair behind my ear and sigh. I begin to run the soap over his not-so-small body for the 3rd time this morning. I watch him lean against the wall and enjoy the warm water pouring down on him. He leans in to drink the water and I smile at his playfulness.

I aim the sprayer at the mess to wash it all away. I chase the foulness off of his back and legs and into the drain. He tries to stand and in the midst of keeping him safe, I get water all over me. And as the water drips off the tip of my nose, the tears start coming down.

I turn the water off and reach behind me for the fluffy white towel. We have few left that are clean. Our washer has never done so many loads, now that the messes won’t stop. Our hot water never so needed.

I help him to not slip as he steps out. He is unsteady, but eager. I try to snuggle him in the towel, just like my mama did, but he won’t let me. He has never been a snuggler. He has always been a fighter.

I place the towel on our bed, lay him down and double diaper his 5 ½ year old body, the tall, skinny body that now weighs over 50lbs. He is compliant this time, resigned to the fact that the 7th diaper change of the morning is becoming routine.

I zip him into his sleeper and tell him it is time for a rest.

He holds my hand as he wobbles up the steps. Obedient and willing to follow my direction this time. Like clockwork, his rhythmic grunting resumes as we approach his bedroom door. It has been so long since I have heard an actual word come out of his sweet mouth.

He crashes onto his bed and pulls up the covers. He giggles as I sing him “This Little Light of Mine.” He giggles when the light goes under the bush and even more when it comes out. He is enthralled for a brief minute.

I realize that I forgot what his giggle sounds like. For despite the messes I’ve cleaned and will continue to clean, that beautiful little soul is still able to find joy. To laugh out loud at his clown of a mother. To not let his circumstances define his experience of the world.

I come downstairs and find Andrew has just returned with a fresh bottle of carpet cleaner from the store. I re-read the cleaner directions, but I’m not sure why. I have done this dozens of times in the past month. I kneel down again, I tuck my hair behind my ear and I sigh.

I scrub hard in circular motions, careful not to breath in the noxious smell of the cleaner combined with the work of Oliver’s angry intestines.

And then the anger comes, red hot like lava erupting from the core.

I scrub, I blot, I scrub, I blot

And I say out loud to Andrew, “Where is my #%@^# glass slipper?”

He laughs out loud, and he says, “That’s the title of a chapter in your book.”