Pouch Time

It had been a bad day for my son.

A note home from the teacher, getting a warning flag on his classroom car and now a fever of 102. The sort of day that says, man, it's hard to be six years old.

His solemn eyes looking up at mine and asking to go to bed two hours early. I completely understood. Who hasn't had those days as a grown up when you wished you could travel back into time and put on those Carter footed jammies. Their hug-like warmth accompanied wtih your mom tucking you into bed with your favorite story and a mug of warm milk.

As part of our nightly ritual, I rub his back and ask him to share his 3 grateful things of the day. He responds, "right now, three times."

Which was immediately followed by "mom, can I have pouch time?"

Now before anyone calls DSS, let me explain. Pouch time is when I wrap my arms around my son and he spoons up into my tummy, pretending that he is a tiny kangeroo in a mom's pouch. Pouch time is special, only saved for injuries, scary dreams and hurt feelings. Pouch time is like calling in the big guns.

"Of course," I answer. Amazed at the fact that this is the same boy who refuses to kiss me good bye in carpool, who won't hold my hand because he knows how to walk by my side. I adore that we still have pouch time.

And yes, this is my grateful thing of the day too -- three times.