Last night, we had Matthew’s first music teacher over for dinner.  Matthew, who is now in 7th grade, took piano lessons from “Mr. Dave” in 2nd and 3rd grade.  We’ve stayed in touch with him via social media, where he’s watched our kids grow up virtually, but it had been about 3 years since we’d seen him.

I think I’ll always have a soft spot for Dave, who patiently taught a 7-year-old Matthew to read music, play the piano, and gave him his first taste of performing in front of others at piano recitals.  And last night, I had a reminder of why – he couldn’t wait for Matthew to play the saxophone and sing for him, and he accompanied him on the piano for both.  He didn’t judge Matthew (or us) for not continuing with the instrument he’d taught him to play, but seemed genuinely happy that Matthew still has a love for music (which I will always be grateful that Dave helped nurture).

So, when I was getting a little misty last night, listening to Matthew and Dave playing music together, I was thinking about the many adults in my kids’ lives, the roles they’ve played (and continue to play) and how happy I am that our paths have crossed.

When Matthew was a baby, I remember feeling bothered that he enjoyed the company of other people who weren’t me.  I know it was my own maternal insecurity, which evaporated when a seasoned parent told me, “Kids can never have too many adults who love them.”  And I’m sure now that it’s true.

We have neighbors who have seen our boys playing outside and stopped what they’re doing to come and have a catch with them.  Friends and relatives who have come to see concerts, games and performances.  Teachers, coaches and camp counselors who have understood and appreciated their strengths and quirks, and have nurtured their love for sports, music, theater, art and more.

So, despite the fact that on occasion, I feel slightly crestfallen (I do still like to think I am my kids’ favorite grownup) when I think my kids prefer the company of some of these wonderful adults in their lives, I will always be grateful for these fantastic people in our kids’ lives who are helping shape them into the pretty awesome people we think they’re becoming.

I’ve got Michael home sick with me today.  I’m certainly not happy that he isn’t feeling well, but there’s something about taking care of a sick kid that touches the deepest part of my mommy-ness, and I have to admit – I kind of like it.

I realized this about myself when Dave and I were first married.  He got a bad case of the flu.  I SO wanted to take care of him – bring him soup and tea, take his temperature, worry and fix his blankets.  But unfortunately for me, all he wanted was to be left alone to be sick and sleep.  And I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Little did I know that just a few years later, I’d have plenty of opportunities to take care of little people who really couldn’t take care of themselves.  When Matthew was a baby, he seemed to catch everything that was going around.  Before he was a year old, he’d already had about a dozen colds, a handful of ear infections, coxsackie virus, and two pneumonias that landed him in the hospital.  Back then, I could barely keep up with it.  And it stinks to take care of someone who just cries, because they can’t tell you what’s wrong with them.  Until they throw up in your lap.  Then it becomes pretty clear.

Fast forward a few years, and I’ve nursed my boys through colds, bronchitis, stomach bugs (those, frankly, I’d be happy to skip), asthma and more.  And they seem happy to have me bring them soup, take their temperature (usually with a kiss on the forehead, which I believe is nearly as accurate as a thermometer), worry, and fix their blankets.

I’m taking Michael to the doctor in about half an hour.  Right now, he’s tucked into a blanket on the couch, eating a waffle and watching TV.  He asked if when we get back from the doctor, if we can “snuggle on the couch and watch a movie.”

So, maybe THAT’S what I like about it.