An uncomfortable feeling

"Momma." I just hear the soft rasp over the dialogue on a saved version of Grey's Anatomy and I hit the mute button, listening.

"Momma?" The word floats down the stairs again and hovers around my head.

"What is it, Garrett?"

"I have an uncomfortable feeling." Uh oh. My mind jumps instantly to puke. My mind always jumps to puke. Great. He'll puke and I'll have to clean it up and two days later I'll be puking, like clockwork. I have yet to avoid a single childhood stomach virus. I think some higher power thinks it's funny when I swear around my regurgitated dinner to get my tubes tied in the morning.

"In your tummy? Does your tummy hurt?" I stand at the bottom of the stairs now, looking up at him, so little suddenly with his bright red mop head and footy pajamas. Oh my god, how will I give up footy pajamas next year? The 5Ts pull at their shoulders.

"No, not in my tummy. Here." He touches his chest. He is such a strange, endearing, deliberate, brilliant child.

I take the stairs two at a time and touch his cool forehead. When I kneel before him, he meets my eyes. "I have an uncomfortable feeling here," he touches above his heart again, "because of the soap." He barely whispers.

"The soap?"

A reluctant nod. "I went to the bathroom and then I washed my hands, but then I played with the soap and it all spilled out."

"Oh." I am at a loss for a moment. I can't think around the hot tears pressing behind my eyes. Shame. Guilt. Fear of disappointing someone. They are uncomfortable feelings, aren't they? Right in that sore spot. Above the heart.

"Okay. Listen. It's really good that you told me. You told the truth and that's the best way to fix a mistake. Right?"

He nods around his tears and I can't help but but send a quick thank you to whatever powers that be. Thank you for sending me these easy situations sometimes. Thank you for showing me their fragile, little hearts wrapped up in inner strength and innate knowledge of right and wrong so that I can remember not only that I am doing something right, some of the time, and that they are good, good children all on their own, but also that I should keep my voice measured more often, treat them gently as they learn.

"Doesn't that feel better? That you told me and we can fix it? I'm proud of you. But," - Oh god, there's always a but. I'm sorry, there's no getting around it. The healing red helium balloon called THE RIGHT THING is always attached with an unbreakable string to a big old BUT. "But, it's not okay to dump out all of the soap. I have to buy more and also, it's not good for our world. The soap goes into the drain and down to the ground and into our rivers. It makes our fish sick. We need to be gentle with our world."

He nods again into my shoulder, his skinny little boy arms wrapped around my neck.

"Bedtime now. Do you feel better?"

"Yes. It's gone. I'm sorry about the fish."

"It's okay. We'll try to be extra careful with the soap tomorrow."

He's asleep now, face soft and smooth, untroubled and young. The uncomfortable feeling forgotten. If only it were always that easy.