A little boy’s husky voice floated over the shelf from the cereal aisle.
“Fwost Fwakes, Mom, peas?”
I froze in disbelief. He sounded like my youngest son when he was a toddler. In that moment, the forgotten feeling of young motherhood washed over me. Instead of being the mother of college-aged men busy pursuing their education and their part-time jobs to the point we were more like distant relatives, I morphed into the mother of two little boys whose every thought, mood, and facial expressions I could anticipate as well as my own.
Standing in the canned vegetable aisle, a tidal wave of memories rushed in without warning. Cloth diapers and pacifiers, high chairs and baby food jars, little boy voices and toys strewn all over the living room floor. I could almost feel the sharp edges of a Pocket car piercing the flesh of my heel. I couldn’t believe nineteen years had passed so quickly.
“Fwost Fwakes, Mom, peas?”
“I told you no. You’re going to finish the box of Sugar Snaps at home.”
A wail like a police siren flooded the aisles.
My heartstrings jerked wildly. I wanted to rush over to that little guy and get him the box myself. I wanted to tell his mother to say “yes” whenever possible, to make happy memories while it was still within her power to do so, to enjoy this special time of motherhood because it would soon be over, never to return.
While I was debating whether to risk embarrassment or mind my own business, the young mother surrendered. “Okay, okay. Here’s your Frosted Flakes. I’ll eat the Sugar Snaps.”
Silence.
Then, “I wuv you, Mom.”
“I love you, too,” came the soft reply.
I bent over and pretended to inspect a can of green beans while tears slipped down my cheeks.
