Springtime

My son, Yack, watched Bambi several weeks ago and has since become obsessed with the term, “twitterpated.” Of course, when Spring hits and Bambi shuns springtime love when he learns it from the wise owl, Yack wants to pause the movie and have a full discussion about what’s transpiring here.

And P.S. Yack is four years old.

This is how I explain the situation, knowing that I will have this same conversation in about two years when he asks where babies come from. Thanks, Disney. He’s four.
Did I mention that?

“Yack, twitterpated means when you are in love, when your heart beats fast, when you are excited about being with someone.”

He asks, “Are you and daddy twitterpated?”

Yeah, I guess so.

He then wants me to rewind. Seven times. I am drinking wine at the time so I comply. Frankly, I like that scene when spring starts to bubble up under Bambi's legs. It reminds me of what's to come.. the smells outside start to change. The days are longer. The farmers market is more robust. It’s the little things that bring me joy now. Flowers, the threat of allergies, the farmers market, wine and my kid asking me what it means to be twitterpated.

A couple of days pass. I am in the kitchen making breakfast frantically before work and Pants approaches me, gives me a little pinch on my backside and kisses my cheek – a morning ritual.

Yack giggles like Thumper, with his hands to his mouth. “You guys are twitterpated.”

Yes, son, I guess we are. How about that, Pants? We are twitterpated after 10 years. You annoy me when you breathe sometimes, when you lose your wallet on a weekly basis, and you never do laundry, you get mad when I steal your work socks, but we are still twitterpated.

It took our kid to remind us.

Then the twitterpated conversation took a different, almost uncomfortable turn. After his ninth viewing of Bambi (incessant video watching can't be that bad, no?), Yack came into my bedroom and declared that he was twitterpated too.

This should be interesting.

With who, I ask?

“With you, mommy.”

After my heart turned to warm milk chocolate, I thanked him but tried (and failed) to explain to him that being twitterpated meant that you were smitten, that you had feelings of excitement, anticipation, high hopes.

“Mommy, what are high hopes?”

Don’t worry about it, Yack, I am twitterpated with you too.

Yack waited for Pants to get home from work that night to tell him about his revelation – that he was, in fact, twitterpated with Daddy too.

Pants looked at me for answers.. I motioned to play along.

“Son, I am twitterpated with you too.”

Hoping this little obsession of his would find a more wholesome replacement, Yack and I stepped away from the electronics and went for a hike near our home. He was fascinated with the budding poppies, the smell of jasmine in the air, the cherry blossoms. Typically, he is itching to get back home and pop in that Bambi DVD so I relish in this moment of peace and agreement.

He stopped along the trail, picked a flower and handed it to me, declaring that it was springtime, and that meant he, along with the animals, and birds was twitterpated.

This might have been the best damn day of my life. I hugged my little man and reciprocated the expression.

Several days later, Yack woke up to an inviting sun. He couldn’t wait to get outside and play in the bright green grass amidst the maple tree that was starting to bud. I stood outside watching him kick a soccer ball with my fresh out of bed mop head, my creased morning face, donning flannel pj’s and Pants oversized slippers, and loudly slurping my excruciatingly hot tea… watching my boy. Twitterpated with life.

He then caught a glimpse of me watching him. He put a foot on the ball, smiled and declared, “Mommy, you’re sexy.”

And that’s when the springtime betrayed me like Benedict Arnold.