Well, I’ll Be a Monkey’s Mother

Fourteen-month-old Monkey boy runs screeching through the playground grass, stopping sudden on muscled haunches to ponder a whitened dandelion, all soft and shivering on its stem. “Monkey!” I call, offering a banana, his favorite. The other parents ponder this, no doubt wondering if I have actually named my banana-eating child “Monkey.” I have not. Jonah loves bananas, and I just happen to have nicknamed him “Monkey.” He is, after all, the son of a geek.

First time on the slide;
wood chips look mighty tasty!
You love to hold sticks.

“Monker-Monk!” I shout in a sing-song “Might-y Mouse!” voice. “Getchoo Getchoo!” Monkey shrieks and takes off running, arms flailing up and swinging down like some little moppet of a chimpanzee. I enjoy getting down in the dirt and playing with the children. Some other parents chat about what age which kid did what thing. Sometimes I chat too. I try to be kind to everyone I encounter. Kindness is what I want most of all to teach my son.

If I am unkind,
it poisons my monkey-boy
who learns what he lives.

My son lives up to his nickname, climbing the steps to the slide and jumping on the wobbling bridge that a couple of five-year-old girls are pretending is HOT LAVA. They tell us “you should run really fast across it,” so as not to get burned. Monkey-boy takes this task seriously and flings himself happily forth behind the giggling girls. He is strong and sweet, brave and amazing. I hope I am up to this incredible task of mothering him.

My climbing monkey son,
Your momma loves you so much:
Jonah Russell Krebs