Thiscuteness tickles the part of my brain that likes it when a couple wears matching PJs on Christmas morning, or when tiny versions of big things are involved. Like those mini jars of jam in the grocery store.
“I, uh, helped him with the buttons,” Murph says. “As soon as he saw what I was wearing, he wanted to wear the same thing. They were a little… off.”
Which is a polite way of saying a mess.
I swallow my smile. “We’re still working on buttons.” Ben almost gets it right, but he’s usually so excited to start playing that he rushes through getting dressed. When he takes his time, he doesn’t wind up with more buttons than holes at the top.
“I got some of them right.” Ben wrinkles his nose as he tugs on the hem of his shirt.
“That’s okay, baby,” I say with a reassuring smile. “You’ll figure it out one day.”
“He has a lot of energy,” Murph says unnecessarily.
As if he hasn’t seen Ben run all over this house from the moment he cracks his eyes open in the morning to when it’s time to go up to bed.
“I know,” I sigh. “Usually it goes toward crawling over me at 6 a.m.”
It was a joke. Or, I guess half of one.
Murph drops into a crouch in front of Ben. “What’s this about using your mom like a climbing frame?”
Ben laughs. “A climbing frame?”
Murph chuckles. “Sleeping mamas don’t make good climbing frames. They can roar if you wake them up too early. Like a dragon.” And heactuallyroars. His impression of what a dragon might sound like would be more impressive if that dragon weren’t me.
“Hey!” My back stiffens in outrage, and I start to complain as Ben dissolves into giggles, a hand over his mouth. That happy sound silences me in a way few things ever can. When my son is giggling like that—even though I’m the punchline of this particular joke—it’s impossible to cling to my outrage for long.
“How about next time you wake early and want something to do, we can work on a project,” Murph suggests.
“That sounds like child labor,” I say, frowning.
At the same time, Ben jumps up and down, yelling, “And paint? Or bang nails into the wall.”
Just what we all need. A five-year-old running around with a hammer, banging on walls at 6 a.m.
“No hammering,” Murph says with gentle firmness. “I could teach you to make something.” He glances at me. “Your mamais going to have a little boy or girl. Maybe we could make something for your brother or sister.”
“A crib?” Ben suggests, hopping up and down, his excitement growing by the second. “No, a playhouse, or a swing set, no, abiggerhouse with aporch.”
My son has never picked up a hammer or a piece of wood in his life, and he’s over there planning to build his brother or sister a house. I nearly laugh at its absurdity. His dreams are always so big, but I never want to make them smaller. I love his self-belief and that he wants to achieve so much, so I watch Murph carefully, ready to jump in if he eventhinksabout trampling my son’s hopes, as ridiculous as they can sometimes be.
Murph strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not the man for a project like that. When a company hires me, they hire me to work on the inside of a house, putting up walls, plastering, and painting. But maybe we could do something else.” He shoots me another quick glance. “A surprise for your mom.” He leans toward Ben and whispers in Ben’s ear. “Think she’ll like that?”
Ben’s eyes pop. “Uh-huh.”
I make a mental note to coax the secret out of my son the first chance I get. It’s rare that I get surprised much anymore. When I had Ben, I was the one planning the surprises. But this one seems juicy… and fun. Definitely fun.
Hmmm. Maybe I won’t coax the secret out of him after all. Maybe I’ll see if this excitement about what they could be working on keeps growing.
Murph sticks out his hand, still serious, and his larger palm swallows Ben’s small one in a handshake. “Then you’ve got yourself a deal, little man. Instead of using your mom as a climbing frame, we’ll make a surprise for her and your little brother or sister.”
It doesn’t hit me until much later that this project they’re working on is as much for me as it is for Ben. Ben needsentertaining in the morning, and I need a little more sleep than I’ve been getting.
I can’t take my eyes off Murph’s hands.
They’re strong and tanned, the nails short and blunt, and they hold me utterly transfixed in a way few things ever have.
With Win and Joel at work, the creaks and soft thumps drew me from Ben’s bedroom, where I was putting away the laundry that I did this morning while Ben napped.
