The Fruits of my Labors

I've noticed that as my kiddos get older, they don't need me to be a hands-on mama so much any more.  We've evolved from the bum-and-nose-wiping, lap-napping and owie-kissing kind of relationship, to the homework-helping, high-five-ing, peck-before-bed-ing type.  As I often lament here in posts, their childhoods are going by at warp-speed, and I can't seem to find the cosmic brakes.

I decided recently to look for ways to make more loving contact with my larger rugrats, beginning with my eldest.  Yesterday when he got back from school I tried hard to let him see the joy on my face as I welcomed him home.  I helped him with his math, something I should have been given a medal for, and told him my favorite jokes from middleschool.  Later, as we stood chatting, I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a long, bury-his-face-in-my-squishy-chest hug. 

And what were the fruits of my labors?

.

.

He surfaced for air and said:

"Um, no offense mom,"

 (uh-oh, here it comes, think I),

"but you smell like baby puke."

.