The tiny music box was a last-minute gift, something I came across online while shopping for my nieces and nephews about a week before Christmas. I knew it would touch Kostyn’s heart, as he has been going through a bit of a “mommy” thing these last few months. I don’t know what brought it on, probably just his age, but he has been extra affectionate, doting even. Sometimes he drops his robots and Angry Birds for a moment to come and stroke my face, to whisper “I love you infinity, Mommy, I love you more than anyone ever.”
I know it’s a phase, but I am relishing it, especially since he and his little brother spend so much time lately in that kind of play little boys often take up that is both innocent and violent. Their hugging becomes wrestling. Their flying superheroes suddenly charge at other toys. Their robots are now “bad guys,” out to destroy everything. They are equal parts naïve and bold, fearless and cautious. I don’t allow toy guns here, or any other weapons. But they make them. They’re resourceful, those two, and their imaginations get the best of them. They build “shooters” out of Legos and create elaborate setups for battles that might involve Superman, Batman, a robot, two dinosaurs and a lion puppet.
Part of me says it’s normal; the other part of me just wants my little guys to stay sweet. So I take apart their shooters. I turn wrestling matches into tickle fights. When they beg me to play superheroes with them, I try to get them to focus on saving people, not just fighting bad guys.
When I saw the music box, I knew it would speak to Kostyn’s soft side. You turn the tiny crank and it plays “You Are My Sunshine,” a song his father and I have been singing to them, with special verses Chris made up, since Kostyn was a newborn.
It had been at least a year or two since I’d sang that little lullabye to Kostyn, except for one night a couple months ago when he called me into their room after lights out and begged me to; Evan was already asleep. I could barely get through the song, Kostyn kept interrupting me with squeals and hugs. “You are the best mother ever! That ever God made,” he gushed. “I’m so happy, I can’t believe you’re my mother. I love it so much, it makes me so happy I almost cry I’m so happy!”
When I finally got up to leave, he said, “However much you think I love you … it’s way, way, way, way more than that.”
I floated out of his room that night.
When the music box came, I was surprised by how tiny it was, but I knew its fragility would add to its appeal. I wrapped it in tissue paper and tucked it inside a small stocking, the kind usually reserved for a gift card. It was the first thing Kostyn grabbed to open when they came out Christmas morning and saw all the presents under the tree. He loved it, but the pull of excitement from his brother and all the other gifts waiting to be opened got the best of him. The music box was tossed aside.
Hours later I came around the corner into the living room and saw Kostyn lying on the couch, clutching the tiny toy. His eyes were closed, but I thought I heard him crying. Oh no, I thought. He broke it.
“Kostyn, you OK?”
He looked up at me, his face in pain. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear.
“What, honey? Are you OK? What’s wrong? Come here,” I prodded gently. I wanted him to know it was OK if he had broken it, that we could get another one.
He stood up and walked to me, really starting to sob. “I … just …. love you …. so … much,” he said, collapsing into my arms. He hadn’t broken it; he’d just finally felt the notes.
I held him for several minutes, crouched down at his level, as he wept, his love pouring out of him. “This is my favorite present ever,” he sobbed. Hours later, he did one better. “Mommy,” he said. “You’re my present.”
Twenty-four hours later almost to the minute, the boys and I happened to be talking about what they were like as babies. (Kostyn was a pain in the neck, Evan was a dream, I loved them both imperfectly and completely.) They wanted to see pictures of themselves, so I pulled up my blog and came across a video clip of Kostyn’s first Christmas. He was 6 months old.
We watched baby Kostyn rip open his very first Christmas present and before I knew what was happening I was sobbing, completely overcome with love for that child. Kostyn turned to me on the couch, asked if I was sad.
“No,” I said. “I … just … love you … so … much.”