What Yoda and I Have in Common

When I went for a follow up appointment for my knee yesterday, the doctor asked if my family has been taking care of me.  And I answered yes, because it is true - in their own, different ways - they have been a phenomenal support system.

My husband made sure I got my meds, ice packs, and meals over the first three days, and after that, he became a good listener when I got frustrated because I could not do everything I wanted to do.  Ellie's specialties were getting things for me when I asked without complaining and just hanging out with me reading books and watching T.V.  However, the most interesting care-taking has been from my son, Tate. This is good to know because someday when I am an old lady and need someone to take care of me, I will be knocking on his door, and hopefully he will be as enthusiastic to spend time with me in the future as he is now. "Yea! Mommy is here!" is something I am sure his wife will appreciate hearing.  Although, if his current plans for his future remain unchanged, he'll still be living here:  he'll have no wife because girls are gross, and he wants to live with us forever.

The first few days after my surgery were the most shocking.  Tate tucked me in each night as I was often in bed before him.  He begged me to use his head for a crutch since I was hobbling so much.  He wanted so badly for me to put my hand, arm, or armpit (gross!) on his head so I would walk better.  Of course, I refused to do this fearing I would damage his neck and spine.  When we went on a hike last week to get me out of the house, he inadvertently attempted to steal an old man's walking stick for me to use. When he realized that it was already someone's possession, he looked for twigs and branches that would do.  When none really did the trick, he held my hand and simply said, "I just want to walk slow with you Mommy, back here," since Ellie was charging ahead and Pete was trying to keep up with her.

Really, this is me?

Even now that I am moving fairly normal, I'm the lucky recipient of a random hug after dinner, a kiss on the cheek as he leaves for the bus, or just some snuggle time on the couch.  Last night as I was slowly descending the stairs into the basement (going down stairs still hurts), he called me "Master Yoda" as he was watching Star Wars, Episode V. At the time, Yoda was teaching Luke how to use the force during his Jedi training.  I took this as a compliment - being called a Master of anything usually is, and Yoda is wise, disciplined, and gifted - until he explained to me that I was like Yoda because we are both slow.  This was followed by Tate trying, unsuccessfully, to use the force to choke me. What else could I do besides laugh?  He is a six-year-old boy, after all.

  

I have been trying to determine if he is going through a phase or if it is just his own sweet way of dealing with a mommy who is so out of sorts.  I guess it really doesn't matter.  My family loves me, and they're here for me.  I am glad I know how lucky I am.