To Aidan, suddenly six...
Thursday, August 20, 2009 at 12:20PM and more mine than ever.
You were born with a cluster of three tiny bumps on your left cheek. Right below your eye. It was a clear and unforgettable mark. Stressed to the max about the possibility of a baby switch, your dad was relieved. Well, almost relieved. He still shadowed you completely for two days to ensure that we exited the hospital with the same boy who had entered it in {my} utero.
Once we were home (cheek bumps still there - check!), the father/son shadowing only let up slightly. Dad was enamoured. I was as well, but tempered with a whole lot of overwhelmed & tired. So we joked that you were his child. And he very willingly got up with you for most early morning feedings. I'd wake up to see the two of you snuggled cozily on the recliner by our bed.
You cried seldom, but when you did he'd whisper in your ear that you were as strong as a thousand bengal tigers - a ready welcome into our Scott clan. It was the same thing he continually told me when I big-belly wondered how I would manage as a mother. The man has a way of calming both of our nerves.
Because the two of us are more alike than "he's his daddy's boy" insinuates. You are mine in temperament - passion, impatience, initial temper followed by depths of empathy (a paintful combo, really). And you are mine because you gave me the best job in the world. I'll admit it was a job that initially had me in terror. One that I stepped aside from at first...while Dad stepped up to fill the gaps. And then he patiently helped to ease me in. As he always does with you.
On your first day of Kindergarten, your twist of turmoiled emotions had my insides similarly agonized. So he came with us to school. Because I had to step aside again. Because I knew your feelings too precisely. My 9 month symbiote. He firmly stood beside you, whispered strength into your ears (again). Then you disappeared into a room of 30 desks and peers. And he eased back to my side to whisper strength to my ears (again).
Now you're two weeks into 1st grade, confident and sure. Still, we have our bumps. Yesterday was a hard one. You refused to do your homework, picked on your brother, sassed back at my proddings. And I suppose my own behavior deserved no prizes in return. But I love how you woke up this morning. After some sleeping and thinking (and - if I know me & you - copious worry & regret). "Mom, I want to not hit or say anything mean or do anything bad today. Can you help me?" Me: "If you'll help me, too".
After all, Dad can't always be around.
And...really...I relish the relationship we're developing as you get older. You are fascinated by the world. By stories. By how things work. On our way to the cabin this summer you asked a question and I ended up telling you a story from the Book of Mormon. The story hardly ended before you were begging for another. And then another. And another. And we were suddenly past Payson and had never even turned on music for our drive. All enjoyable conversation. That, I recognize.
Still, you surprise me with parts I don't recognize. Like when you suddenly start guzzling a half gallon of milk in one day. Or when you happily head out the door to "run laps" in the backyard. Or when every picture you draw (and you do fill notebooks) is flooded with weapons and monsters. It's a funny paradox, to have a boy so much a part of me and yet so distinctly his own person.
As I held you tight the other day, savoring the rarity of the moment, I thought about your first days in the hospital. And thought to examine your cheek. Those three bumps are indeed still there. Very faded. Hardly visible. But still marking Dad's child. My child. A boy whose uniqueness honestly eliminates the need for any permanent marking. You're both completely ours and entirely your own. Forever.
Reader Comments (7)
Beautiful.