It’s as if an entire lobe of his brain is occupied by thoughts and images of me, and when the other parts shut down, that lobe takes over. “Mama!” he says, smiling vacantly like a miniature Promise Keeper.

It doesn’t hurt that I’m the good cop in the house. Not that his father doesn’t have a soft side. But let’s just say William knows who to look for when he wants a little extra dessert or a soft touch in the Punishment Department. Even Michael will admit, and not without malice or envy, that I’m usually Number One in William’s book.

Until basketball season starts, that is. Then everything changes.

Last week I woke to hear Jessie doing her usual early-morning, screaming-bloody-murder shtick and bounded down the stairs to make her stop. In the hallway I saw William. Actually, I saw a blur of color as William raced past me and up to our bedroom. I think he managed to say, “Hey,” as he fled past.

I stood mid-step, mouth open. “Hey,” I said, half to myself.

A minute later I heard them upstairs.

“Papa, can you turn on Sports Center?”

“Huh? Oh—yeah!”

And with a click of the remote, the TV was blaring.

But then I hear Michael and William above us yelling and clapping, and I know her focus on me will someday splinter too. She’ll start to grow space in her brain for other stuff, and I won’t be the sole moon that she orbits. I crave that future moment now as much as I know I’ll mourn it when it comes.
 
For now I sit with her, saying things like: “Because Boots is Dora’s friend!” and “Why do you think?” I try to savor every maddening moment, knowing that in a few short years, she’s going to leave our toy-strewn playroom, like William has, and find a world all her own. I’m learning that my children’s love is cyclical, and I have to grab hold of it whenever it’s offered.

Because one day the NBA is taking a long summer break, and the next, the game is on.