Got My Present a Day Early

My five year old, John, has had it in for me lately, telling me that he hates me whenever things don't go his way.

"I hate you, Mom."

"I don't love you, I hate you."

"I can't wait to go to school because you won't be there."

Geesh.

We're still butting heads about the bathroom talk. "Fart" is his new favorite word. When Brian, my mom or I ask him a question, half the time we get a fresh answer. He's relentless. He literally spews naughty words all day, and I have no idea why. A phase, I'm sure. It's not like I let him get away with it. The other night I even swatted his butt for saying he hated me for the 10th time that day. Not a great moment in my mothering history. But wow, was I sick of hearing it.

In contrast to his professed hatred for me, John is helplessly in love with his sister, Ava. "Do you know who I love the most?" he has asked everyone who will listen, again and again, for the past several months. "Ava."

"Do you know who I like the best? Ava."

"I love Ava a wicked lot."

"Mom, guess who I like the ..."

"Ava?"

"Yep."

He's often affectionate with me, too. I don't get a lot of "I love you's" from him, but he comes and sits on my lap, resting his head on my shoulder. At bedtime, he stands on his bed so I can pick him up and give him some smooches. Recently he began demanding that I kiss him 100 times, but that got to be a bit much, so we're back to just several kisses on each cheek, plus a high five.

This week, though, when I approached his bed, I'd get the old "talk to the hand" response. He'd barely let me kiss his cheek.

Last night, I read stories to the boys and tucked them in, got "the hand" from John and went downstairs. I was in front of the bathroom mirror when John appeared in the doorway, chin buckled, tears rimming his eyes.

"You didn't kiss me, Mom."

"Oh, I'm glad you came and got me," I said, and walked him back upstairs. He's 50 pounds now, so I have to hold him in front of me with my fingers weaved together beneath him like a seat. Standing by his bed in the dark, feeling his weight against my chest, I kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, "I love you more than anything."

Tonight, I again got full hug-and-kiss privileges. This time, as I held him, he said, "Mom, I love you the most." I froze, waiting for him to retract, to remind me that he loves his sister the most, then his dad, then, um, 10 other people, and then me. "I mean, I love you the opposite of the most, which means the least." That's something he would say. I am not kidding.

Instead, he continued: "I love Ava a wicked lot, and I love you a wicked lot. I love Ava the most, and I love you just as much."

"Thank you, Johnny, that makes me feel so good," I said as I pulled his blankets over him. He didn't even say "fart" as I walked out of the room.

I know he's loved me all along, underneath the tough talk. Hearing it from him tonight, though, the way he said it? Best Mother's Day gift, ever. I feel like I can love him through 1,000 more "I hate you's," if I have to.

Hopefully, he didn't plan it that way.

UPDATED TO ADD: When I came downstairs this morning, John greeted me with a huge hug. Then as I helped him with something he said, "I love you, Mom. You're the best. I can always I count on you." I've either entered an alternate universe or he's working me for a trip to the toy store. If it's the latter, he's on the right track.