Between a Hug and a Choke

Tucked inside the usual sheaf of papers about snack schedules and fundraisers that the afterschool program leaves for me once a month was a folded piece of pink construction paper, decorated in a multicolor scribble of markers by the oversized, nearly 7-year-old hands of Thing 2.

"Mom and Dad," read the cover, "you are the bast pares I have."

I turned to the boy, who was putting on his coat, which was once bright yellow but now bore the three-dimensional haze of grays, blacks, browns and whites from a winter of being tossed on the floors of gyms, basements and classrooms.

"Is this a leftover from Valentine's Day?"

"Yep," he said.

Flipping it open, I found a trimmed sheet of loose-leaf stapled in. In pencil, his scribble lay.

"Mom and Dad you are the bast peppl on earth. Thing 1 thacs for halping me on pok'emon."

I looked at him, his coat flying open as he twisted his body side to side.

"Dude," I said, "thanks."

His head tilted up. His eyes shifted toward whatever invisible object it is he always seems to focus on that's dangling down from the ceiling over your left shoulder when you talk to him.

"You're welcome. Now," he said, turning away so I could clearly see the frayed strap on his Spider-Man backpack that I had repaired with duct tape a few months ago, "let's get going -- chubby."

Son, dear son.

I should hug you more often. I really should.

Sometimes, though, so much of my energy goes into trying NOT to throttle you that I just can't lift my arms. And, trust me -- that is a good thing. A very, very good thing.

I love you, too, you little twerp.