Shadows.

"Mommy!  Where are you going?!" an exasperated Michael yells.  I take a heavy sigh and explain that I am just leaving the room to make a phone call and to get the basket of clothes I need fold.  Dealing with his insane attachment issues and anxiety about not having me in his line of sight at all times has been very stressful...  for him and ME.

I am exhausted just thinking about how many times this week I have reassured him that Mommy is not going anywhere, he is stuck with me.  But no matter how many hugs, cuddles, kisses on his porcelain forehead I give him, he is still not buying it.  At almost four years old he is has full blown separation anxiety.  It has become extreme since he has been staying at home so much the past two months with our quarantine to get Michael well after his hospitalization and fallout in recent months.

He has become my shadow.

It is sweet, almost endearing.  There are moments that I know I will miss that he wants to be two steps behind me.  I certainly know that I should cherish these moments.  And believe me, I do.  But there are also the times it is...

(WARNING:  bad mom comment coming, turn and look away if you can't bear to read this)

ANNOYING.

Like the times he just has to check on me in the bathroom.  Or the times when I go to quickly spin around and rush into the other room and in doing so completely level him to floor.  Or the times he starts to get anxious when I walk out of the room to check my email on the computer in the next room.  I know, I know.  I realize it sounds cold.  But on some level, a person needs a quiet minute to themselves.  And quite honestly, until my kiddos go to bed, I don't get it.  Not one minute.

Nonstop energy leaks from the windows of our home.  Playful activity spills over from the boys' baths.  Extra globs of blue gel toothpaste smeared on the counter reveals the overzealous workings of a four-year-old.  The pace around here is a million miles per hour.  And in all of it, to simply have some personal space shouldn't be all that much to ask for, but in this circus it is an impossibility.

My boys are loud and rowdy and full of life, which I love.  But it's plain draining.  The kids jump off my sofas (even with all the scolding in the world!) in a heated firefight with other robots.  As I lunge for the ringing phone, the robots in the other room start yelling at eachother.  I clearly miss the phone call in the commotion and our answering machine picks up.  Over the loud volume of someone's voice leaving a voicemail about a check up on the boys' respiratory vests, there is toddler shrieking and crying (Dylan).  Then, there is growling from the older robot  (Michael).  Then I hear a pitiful response from Dylan, slurred behind his pacifier firmly in his mouth, "I saaaaa."  (Translation:  "I'm sad.")  He comes running in to me with his dramatic scowl and asks for me to pick him up.  "Uppy?  Upppppy!!!"  I have been having chest pains lately probably from constantly having to break these brawling boys apart and navigating the complicated waters of toddler negotiating.  Or maybe the chest pains are from lifting and carrying around a hefty kid.  Either way, I am living in a circus... or a madhouse depending on what you call it, where chest pains are normal.

Michael is also now the biggest tattle on his baby brother.  Maybe it's a sense of obligation since he believes he is my wingman, but in this moment, Michael purses his mouth.  He looks down then up again at me with his meanest robot face he can drum up.  I appeal to Michael's sense of brotherly play and love.  "Please play nicely with your brother.  Okay?  Mommy is going to start counting and if I get to 3 that means no more Transformers (his favorite show for CF treatments, so much so he ASKS to do his treatments.)"  I don't know if this more of a threat to him or to my sanity as we lead up to treatment time without his favorite show cued up.  Michael rolls his steel gray blue eyes and heaves a sigh.  "But Maaaa'm..."

I walk away.  No sooner am I heading up the stairs in our foyer holding Dylan, than Michael is at my heels.  He races around my even paced strides and stops directly in front of me.  I stumble and he starts moving his feet faster, "I'm going to win, huh huh.  I am going to beat you Mommy."  Great, all I need is a fall down a flight of stairs because of a foot race with my four-year-old while holding my hefty two-year-old.  I am convinced that kids his age don't understand cause and effect.  At least, they don't understand their own behavior as the causes and the resulting effects to other people.

It's not until later in the day when the dog starts her booming bark and aggressively heads for the front door that I realize Michael's constant patter behind me is a much deeper issue.  The pooch's ears are perked forward attentively and her tail is straight out.  Her fur is standing  up as she lurches forward in her barking ferocity.  She hears something on our street (probably the UPS guy) and her mania startles even me.  Michael whines with a dramatic squeal, "Oh no!" and follows it with a "The are strangers outside are coming to get me."

What?!

I immediately stop the clean up of the dominoes that I have been furiously tossing in the metal bin.  Every domino that lands in the bin is deafening.  I am surprised that we could hear the dog's booming warning over these stupid dominoes.  I walk over and pull Michael into my arms and hug him.  In all the loud chaos, we find a quiet moment.

It all crystallizes.  Even though I am around, I am not always present for him.  And his concern and fear are completely real.  You can feel them in the room.  The laundry can wait.  The email can wait.  The calls can wait.  The mail can wait.  Dinner can wait.  Treatments can wait (a few more minutes anyway). 

Even that personal space I so need can wait.  This little boy just needs his mommy.

Minutes later we are playing on the floor when the trippiest show ever, "Yo Gabba Gabba" radiates from the TV underneath our playtime.  Happy songs, psychedelic characters, and Jack Black all parade across the screen.  I am convinced that some dudes in a dark room tripping on LSD created this cheery show, but obviously they did their job since I walk around regularly singing its tunes.  Dylan drops his head and declares in a distressed tone, "I no wike him."  He wails.  He clearly is not a fan of the Jack Black.  I turn and view the chubby man stuffed into an orange suit with a scraggly beard and beady eyes.  Jack is now dancing and singing, swiftly moving around the brightly colored TV set with the screwy characters dancing around him.  I look at Dylan.  Sparkling tears well up and his eyes turn pink from crying.  I scoop him into my arms and Dylan clutches on and he continues to sadly share his distaste for Jack Black.  "I no wike him," he says shaking his head looking at the floor pathetically.

The only supporting response I can give him is "Neither, do I, Dylan, neither do I."  Afterall, Dylan is right.  Jack Black is a little...  off.  I can't blame the kid.

I glance over at Michael who is now lining up Thomas trains meticulously, one by one, preparing them for an imaginative playtime attack of train robots.  He is sprawled on the carpet of our family room floor concentrating on the impending attack.  I hug Dylan and I plop on the floor with the boys.  "Which train can Mommy have?"  I put my hand out and Michael drops a train in my hand and explains the battle landscape that is developing.

My shadows.  They are more pronounced some days and even downright independent.  And other times they are more reserved appearing only when the timing is just right.  But when the light has shifted, my shadows cast beautiful shapes.  They show up and are playful, these shadows bring joy.  The revelations of my shadows in each appearance teach me new things every day.  I don't ever want to miss my shadows two steps behind me.

My favorite shadows pictures from last year.