The Importance of a Good Swaddling

That it has been a difficult day is obvious. His shoulders low, his head hangs dejectedly.

Fifth grade is hard.

“Bad day?”

He smiles sadly, somewhere between wistful and apologetic. “Yeah.”

“Somebody I can beat up for you?”

He sighs and shakes his head.

“I made tapioca for dessert,” I say.

He sighs again and my heart breaks.

“You know what would be nice?”

He looks at me.

“Being little again, before things got so hard. Remember being little?”

He smiles, just a little. He remembers.

“Go get your bedspread.”

He looks at me, looks sideways and narrows his eyes.

“Go on,” I say, gesturing toward his room. “Just pull it off the bed. It’s not like you were going to make it, anyway.”

A small house, the trip from the living room to his bedroom is a matter of no more than a dozen steps.

He returns with his bed cover, and I move the coffee table so that I can spread it out on the living room floor.

He looks at me, a smile creeping over his face.

“Go on,” I say. “You know what to do.”

It’s been many years, but he drops to the blanket, lays his head on one corner; and like I did so many, many times before, I roll him, swaddle him tightly.

“My little papoose,” I say. I sit on the floor next to him, pull him onto my lap as much as I can. His 12th birthday just weeks away, he is already an inch taller than I am.

I put my arms around him, squeeze him and rock back and forth. He laughs, smiles up at me. “Do I look stupid?”

I gaze down at my Boy. “I don’t think you’ve ever looked stupid,” I say.

I hold him to me, his head on my collarbone. I rest my head on the top of his. The late-afternoon sun streams in onto the hardwood floor next to us.

“I feel better,” he says, sheepishly.

I kiss him on the forehead, look out the window. “You’re still just a kid,” I say, my eyes on the red and gold leaves on the tree across the street.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“Were there still strawberries for the tapioca?”

“There were two left,” I say. “Just enough for me and you.”

He sighs. “Good,” he says.