I still think about trying to have one more baby. Insane, I know, completely nonsensical particularly when you look at the obstacles to having a baby in my ahem, early 30’s, and the stresses and issues in long distance relationships, but I’ve gotten to the point where I get that the kids really do grow up, and they become people distinct from me and as much as I love babies and toddlers I love my boys now so much, love their conversation and thought process and those precious little gems that come out of their mouths.
My older son mostly talks sports with me. Always has, always will. When he has something to say it’s invariably about his Fantasy football team, or a record set, or a news feature on someboy off the sports page.
My younger son talks and its like having Jim Carey crossed with Robin Williams in the backseat, and until recently, belted int the booster seat. My younger son isn’t like anyone else I know and I’ve shared some of his oddities with other moms and they were either shocked, or uncomfortable, or gently baffled. I was sharing his tidbits with maternal pride. I was thinking, ‘Isn’t he remarkable? Isn’t he interesting? Isn’t that so funny coming out of a 7 year old’s mouth?’ The other moms didn’t seem to think so. They seemed to think he was…I was…well, disturbed.
But of course we’re disturbed. I *like* us this way. I don’t want us to be normal. What’s the point of normal? For goodness sake, live outside the bell shaped curve. Find a sweet spot on the maverick monitor and embrace creativity, originality, individuality.
Although, I will say, there are times when my unique child makes even me a little nervous. I don’t know if it’s his vocabulary and his casual reference to ‘nuclear warheads’ or his fascination with rocks, lizards, bats and things that crawl between rocks, lizards and bats. I don’t know if it’s his painfully funny imitation of Michael Jackson’s spin and grab the crotch move. Because he’s seven, still only seven, but even when he’s at his most…unique…I laugh. He makes me laugh. It’s his deadpan delivery. It’s the pleasure he derives from shocking others. It’s his absolute comfort being whoever he is, however he is, in his own skin.
He’s how I always wanted to be. He does what I always wanted to do, and he does it young, and with confidence, and a crazy wink and smile.
I see my dad in him. I see myself in him. And I see trouble in him. But that just makes me love him more.
He’s so…not what I thought he’d be.
At three we had to call him Pegasus.
By four he’d changed his name to Robert George Porter, his uncle Rob’s name. He then spent a year wanting to wear my make up and lamenting the fact he wasn’t a girl.
At five he wanted to be a black rapper and wanted to know how to become black. When I told him he couldn’t, he wanted to know how he could have a black baby. He was also going to be the first d.j. that spun music with his feet. He used to show me how he’d put his feet on the turntable and you know, do that thing they do with the records, and his feet would just go back and forth, back and forth, and everybody would love it.
At five and a half he couldn’t do the K testing because all the words he knew how to write and spell were curse words and he knew it wouldn’t be acceptable. So he flunked the test rather than be inappropriate.
I’d go on but you’d all wonder just what kind of kid I was raising. And I’ve got to say, I don’t think I’m raising him. He’s raising me. Maybe that’s the best part of all. He’s taking me on this ride, this crazy adventure and I love it.
For example, yesterday my son Ty hugged me and returned to his room to play but then said from the doorway, ‘I just really love you a lot right now. I do. Every time I look at you I think how much I love you. And I’m not telling you this because I want to go to Toys R Us.’ He pauses. ‘But if you want to buy me something, that’s okay with me.’
What’s a mother to do?
Love the ride.