"Mom? Are you tired?"
He asks me this all the time. Nearly every day, I'm ashamed to say.
I am tired. I wish I could hide it better but the huge bags under my eyes and haggard look I continually sport give me away.
I agree with him. Yes I'm tired. I tell him I'm fine. Promise him I'm not sick. Hate myself for being so stressed out that my child notices I'm not fine. Hate myself that I can't hide it.
He, age eleven and seventy-something pounds of nothing, sits down on my lap.
"You know," he tells me, "the best way to deal with a problem is to talk about it."
"I know, mom. I know it."
He is so wise to be so small.
And while I'm taking bids for all who want him to marry their daughter one day, I'll warn you...he's priceless.