I didn’t tuck my tween-age son into bed.
Instead, I slipped into my own bed and fell under the trance of Downton Abbey. (Which dashing suitor is Mary going to wed? I can’t believe that happened to Edith! HOW DID I JUST NOW DISCOVER THIS SHOW?) Forty-five minutes into my television coma, my son came upstairs. His tall, lanky figure loomed in the doorway…
“Mom, you forgot to tuck me in.”
He waited that long for me. ("Mother of the Year." Nailed it.)
So we went downstairs. I pulled the soft blankets over him, briefly chatted, whispered a prayer, planted a kiss on his cheek, and told him how much I love him.
Then I climbed back upstairs with a huge smile on my face.
Just when I thought he was getting too old and a little weary of mom’s ridiculous showering of affection in tucking him into bed, he reminded me even older boys still need their mamas. I love that I forgot to tuck him in, because I got to experience this moment.
Mamas, why do we stress so much about making mistakes?