Son Sestina

Mornings with Boys

At 5:17am, from behind the leftover nighttime, a voice

squeaks, “Mom.” I blink my eyes, and put out a hand

“I can’t find my slippers,” he explains, as if cold feet

woke him up. “Climb in with me,” I say and pull him into

my blankets. His knees poke my stomach, his body

folds into mine and the warmth is a wall. The clink of cars

near my cheek, tiny lead-based paint hot wheel cars

snuck into bed with the special, whispering voice 

narrating their adventures. I roll away, my body 

turning from their games. He makes them talk, his hands

dancing them in the air above the blanket, cars into 

planes into buddies. And then he's out. Running feet

into the hall and down the stairs. I put my feet 

down first and look for slippers, stepping on a car

and recoiling. Already a day of toys turning into

weapons. Shower curtain pulled back, my hand

turns on the hot water, waiting for the steam. My body

hasn’t breathed yet. I step in gingerly, feeling like a body

of water drowning. The water so hot it’s cold stabs my feet

and I lean around the stream to adjust, my hand

catching the heat. Counting the attacks – first the cars,

then the water, next comes the tiny, fat fingers and voice

pulling back the curtain: “Momma.” I dip my head into

water. “Momma?” comes again with a diapered bottom into

the bath. His hair is curling, his toes are soapy, and his body

fits between my legs. I pump shampoo and a downstairs voice

asks, “Is Sullivan with you?” Below me he stomps his feet,

splashing and popping bubbles, then squatting and making car

noises. “Yes,” I call, scratching my scalp and rinsing my hands.

 “Dat,” he says and I try to look through the soap, his hand

pointing at me. And before I can stop it, a soapy finger into

my belly button. I fold in, calf hitting the spout, the day’s car

nage amassing. The reminder of “This is not my body”

since it was inhabited by others. I watch the soap around my feet,

gather my calm and attempt to use my kindest mother voice.

With my hands I lift him out, the weight of his almost two-year-old body

pulls me into the day. He retracts his legs leaving no feet

to stand on. Henry runs in with wooden cars, Sully grounded by his voice.