Sweaty

He’s always been a sweaty kid; a hot sleeper with wet hair, wrapped so tightly around me that I know I’m in the exactly right place.

Now he’s bigger. It’s summer and we live in the desert. We curl up on the couch to peruse the very complicated rules of the Pokémon Trading Card Game. I can feel his sweaty socks on my leg, through my yoga pants. Years ago I would have recoiled from hot, sweaty socks. Parenting changes you.

These moments, where I ease into stillness, are rare. He knows it and I know it. The hot feet is a part of the deal. I’m not moving.

We are too alike; indomitable, hot-tempered. I’ve learned to sedate mine, mostly. He hasn’t; he’s working with raw material. We evoke the best and worst in one another, and I’m supposed to be the well-regulated adult model of behavior.

But he knows me. He can feel that part of me that’s been lulled to sleep, and he calls to her. I’m working on it. He’s taught me to take it more seriously and so I’ve built this chapter of my life around digging more deeply into my own dark caverns, bent on coming out with wisdom. It’s helping.

The parenting clichés are true. The years are short, but the days are long. They won’t be little forever. I’ve added: Parenting is Feral.

These sweaty sock moments are precious.