“I love you too, Momma.”
We’re sitting quietly at bedtime when he says it. He says it like he’s answering me, but I didn’t say, “I love you.” Not out loud, anyway. It’s like he knows I say it over and over in my head, and he’s answering me anyway.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
Maybe he feels it in the way I hug him. Maybe he knows when I give in to one more book at bedtime. Maybe he can tell when I tolerantly wipe peanut butter off the television.
I love you, I love you, I love you, my sweet boy. I love you.
He knows anyway, even if I do tell him a lot. Only recently is he able to say it back. But I know, too. I know by the smile he gives me when I’m helping him try to pee on the potty. By how excited he gets when I’m the one to wake him up in the morning. I know when he dances along to the radio with me in the car. I’ve always known.
He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.
I love you too, kiddo.