{This post is dedicated to my son who says I never write about him on my blog.}
The day I brought you home from the hospital, I was sitting on the couch upstairs with you. I had just finished nursing you and was holding you on my knee, softly patting your back when you took every ounce of newborn energy to shake your tiny head around and look me in the eye. Two. Days. Old. It was one of the most amazing displays of human contact I have ever experienced.
A few days later, on our way home from your first appointment with your pediatrician, I told your daddy, "I have this sense that Beau is going to do something big. I don't know what it is, but I think something big is going to happen in his life." I remember exactly where we were on the road when I had the premonition, too.
When you were a few months older, I got constant, CONSTANT comments about how you were the cutest baby anyone had ever seen. Like every day. From everyone. Your big, beautiful 'marble' eyes, wide forehead, and chunky thighs were a sight to see. Even I couldn't get enough of you, and I saw you every day.
When you were two, I smelled finger nail polish wafting from the second floor of our house. I entered your room with fear and trepidation. I was expecting to find walls and furniture shellacked in L'Oreal. But, no. Instead, I found you had 10 perfectly painted fingernails and 10 perfectly painted toenails. And the cap had been screwed back on the bottle. Utterly secure in your manhood and fastidious to boot. Whataboy.
You had the funniest phrases for a preschool age boy. Like the time when a young guy peeled out in some hot rod with his windows down and radio blaring. From across the parking garage you yelled to him (with the appropriate hand expression, I might add), "Rock on, Dude!" You were four. Or the time when we went to the beach in Florida and, as you entered, you yelled, "Surf's up, Dude!" You were five. Were these expressions taught at home? For heaven's sake, no. You lived among introverts but somehow found your voice and expressed it.
In late preschool, a very tall boy called you "little" for the umpteenth time. You hauled off and threw a metal truck at his head. Your teacher took me aside and talked to me. No, I'm not advocating violence as a solution, but vigilante justice runs through your veins. If the teacher and authorities couldn't correct it, you certainly would. You're no one's victim and I admire that about you. Just don't go to jail for it, okay?
Life goes on. You continue to mature in ways that defy my imagination. You weep for injured or orphaned animals and pump your fists when the Longhorns make a touchdown. I love the way you throw your head back when you laugh heartily and that you unabashedly kiss me goodnight. I don't have gaming terminology down, but I know you've started a group that promotes Christ on one of your online games, and you have no problem telling people there what you believe. You are all boy and all heart.
Now you're beginning 7th grade. With great concern, you tell me about the kids who had no one to sit by at lunch. You report about your first day at public school and tell me about the boys whom you worry might be bullies. Your solution? Make a point to talk to them and make them your friends. Lo' and behold, one of them is 'awesome'.
One of the perks of having one boy is that I can guiltlessly tell you you're my favorite son. But if I had 1,000 sons, I would secretly whisper in your ear to tell you, "You're my favorite son." You think I'm just saying that.
I'm not worried about you, but don't let my lack of worry be a sign that I love you less. I gawk at your sensitive, manly, go-for-it maturity. You are all that I've hoped for and more, despite my failings. You are my beloved son, in whom I am absolutely, positively, more than pleased.
Hear y'all him.
Parents are not interested in justice. They're interested in peace and quiet. ~Bill Cosby
