Velcro

My son Tucker won't let me go.


I mean, anywhere.


If I go to the computer, he wedges himself between my chair and the desk, reaching his hands up to block my ability to type.

If I try to go to the store, he waits until I open the front door and then runs out to the car to block my ability to get in. When I open the car door, he climbs up into the car with me. When I carry him inside and hand him to Stan, he screams in protest.


If I'm cooking, he grabs onto my legs so that I have to shuffle slowly one foot at a time so he doesn't fall over while I'm getting plates and utensils.


If I get up to go to the fridge for a snack, he follows me and gets inside the refrigerator the second I open it. If I pour a drink, he has to have it. He is undiscerning; he wants my lemonade, my Diet Coke, and my coffee. I think he only wants it because he knows it's MINE. And he is making it known that NOTHING belongs to me anymore.


If I get up to go to the toilet, I have to wait until he's momentarily distracted so I can make a beeline for it. I always hear him coming after me, his little feet pat-patting on the hardwood floor. It's a race to see if I can slide the door shut before he gets to me. And if I am victorious, he will plant himself directly outside the door and bawl inconsolably until I am finished. Same thing happens when I try to take a shower. Not exactly a relaxing atmosphere.

Moms of teenagers remind me to enjoy this time, because before I know it, this same boy will be pushing me away, telling me not to touch him and never to come in his room. I take this advice to heart, and relish the fact that I am so valued, so inexpendable, so needed. I love it. No really, I do.

85% of the time. The other 15% is going to drive me straight into the loony bin.

I've been known to hide in my house. If I don't open any doors (the noise alerts Tucker to my possible departure from his immediate vicinity) and slip out of the den unnoticed (while he is watching Pooh's Heffalump Movie, perhaps, I might have a sporting chance), I can possibly get into my bedroom without his knowledge. I might be able to buy five minutes in the bathroom or the closet, reading my Oprah Magazine. Oh, the sheer heaven of it. But it isn't long before I hear the familiar, "Mama! MaaaaMA!" and my time is up.

I do wait until he finds me, however. I won't come out until then. If I can find a really good hiding place- say, the laundry hamper- I might get another full ten minutes.