On this, the first day of the last year of my precious son’s childhood, I am awash with memories…
Giving him a bath with the bathroom sink as his tub…staring into his huge periwinkle blue eyes as I fed him…the way he smelled wearing his terry-cloth footie pajamas...how he would “talk” to the handle of his Graco swing, as he rocked for hours…how he sang to “his baby Emi Kat”…this time he proudly told me that he had finally mastered the scissors all by himself, displaying the clouds he had cut out from his bed sheet...
Westley, age 4: “Mommy, you are so MEAN! You’re like a – a – Wicked WITCH!!”
Me: “Well, maybe you should pour a glass of water on me, and I might melt away.”
Westley:“You’re too mean to melt!”
The green toy plastic rake he carried everywhere…the little plastic Pegasus with the chewed up horn in his pocket (that I still have in my jewelry box)…the time he brought a chicken bone in his pocket from last night’s dinner for Show and Tell…the year he WAS Batman. I mean it – For. An. Entire. Year. I was so terrified he’d try to scale the side of the house and slide down….
Preschool teacher: “Westley, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Westley: “Well, maybe a paleontologist or a fireman. But, I have to stay with my Mommy, or she will be sad. So, I can’t live at the firehouse. So, probably a paleontologist. But, with a dog.”
In elementary school, he had a homework envelope to turn in every Monday. He got a prize ticket if his parent had signed the envelope. One week, I received a note in the envelope from the teacher, telling me that she thought he might have forgotten to get my signature the previous Monday. When I looked at the list of dates and signatures on the front of the oversized envelope, I saw what she had meant. My son had forged my name. I knew this, because there in big, bold, D'Nealian Script, I saw my name: MOM.
Westley, age 13: “Mom, would I get into trouble if I got into a fight at school because I had to protect someone?”
Me: “There is zero tolerance for violence at school, so I hope you can find another way to help your friend. I know I have always told you to stand up for people who need help, but if you get suspended or expelled, I won’t be able to do anything about it – and, that’s your future at stake.”
Giving him a bath with the bathroom sink as his tub…staring into his huge periwinkle blue eyes as I fed him…the way he smelled wearing his terry-cloth footie pajamas...how he would “talk” to the handle of his Graco swing, as he rocked for hours…how he sang to “his baby Emi Kat”…this time he proudly told me that he had finally mastered the scissors all by himself, displaying the clouds he had cut out from his bed sheet...
Westley, age 4: “Mommy, you are so MEAN! You’re like a – a – Wicked WITCH!!”
Me: “Well, maybe you should pour a glass of water on me, and I might melt away.”
Westley:
The green toy plastic rake he carried everywhere…the little plastic Pegasus with the chewed up horn in his pocket (that I still have in my jewelry box)…the time he brought a chicken bone in his pocket from last night’s dinner for Show and Tell…the year he WAS Batman. I mean it – For. An. Entire. Year. I was so terrified he’d try to scale the side of the house and slide down….
Preschool teacher: “Westley, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Westley: “Well, maybe a paleontologist or a fireman. But, I have to stay with my Mommy, or she will be sad. So, I can’t live at the firehouse. So, probably a paleontologist. But, with a dog.”
In elementary school, he had a homework envelope to turn in every Monday. He got a prize ticket if his parent had signed the envelope. One week, I received a note in the envelope from the teacher, telling me that she thought he might have forgotten to get my signature the previous Monday. When I looked at the list of dates and signatures on the front of the oversized envelope, I saw what she had meant. My son had forged my name. I knew this, because there in big, bold, D'Nealian Script, I saw my name: MOM.
Westley, age 13: “Mom, would I get into trouble if I got into a fight at school because I had to protect someone?”
Me: “There is zero tolerance for violence at school, so I hope you can find another way to help your friend. I know I have always told you to stand up for people who need help, but if you get suspended or expelled, I won’t be able to do anything about it – and, that’s your future at stake.”
Westley: “I know. I was just checking to see if you would be mad if I had to punch someone or something.”
Forcing him to go to one awards assembly, the last one of middle school…and beaming with pride as he received his Honor Roll and Promotion certificates. Laughing when he told me to enjoy it, because he was never going to another one of “these stupid things again.”
I asked, “What about high school graduation?”
“We’ll see,”
he replied.He wears shorts everyday of his life. “Mom, can you iron my funeral clothes? I have to give a presentation at school.” He meant his sole pair of khaki pants and a shirt with a collar.
Westley, a sophomore: “Mom, can you sign this stuff? I want to take a class at American River College.”
We enjoy political, moral, theological, philosophical, historical, and other esoteric conversations for hours. Our weekly Real Time with Bill Maher viewings. He is the smartest kid I know – more thoughtful and intelligent than many adults, in fact. But, he flies under the radar, moving along quietly, knowing who he is – but uninterested in impressing anyone or conforming to anything.
This kid is now 17, and I am more amazed by him every day. My heart wells with so much love and pride, I feel I might burst. He has taught me at least as much as I have taught him.
And, now he is 17.
Wonderful post! Happy Birthday, Sessy!
ReplyDeleteFabulous. He's an amazing young man!
ReplyDeleteI love this post. I love that you have remembered and recorded the sweet, smart and funny things your boy has said. My daughter just turned nine and I'm still in shock that she's at the "halfway mark". Happy birthday to the both of you!
ReplyDelete