our farewell to T

Last Wednesday we took Jim's youngest brother, T (really John Thomas...but now Elder Scott), to the airport.  And bid him farewell.  Of course, we've known the date was approaching.  Still.  Time warps such events in a way where - though anticipated for months - they still sneak up on you with incredible stealth.

That's how I feel about T's growing up in general though.  When I met Jim, this youngest brother was 8.  When we married, he was 12.  Sometimes obnoxious.  And always loud.  I obviously didn't have much experience with boys at the time.  But still knew that {obviously} if I ever had any of my own, they'd be quiet, clean and infinitely more polite.  Aidan soon came along to prove that theory wrong.  And of course T has grown up, matured over the seven years of our marriage.  But it truly did happen stealthily. 

Because suddenly he was at the pulpit speaking two weeks ago, and I was shocked.  There was no sign of the T {perma-stuck at age 13 perhaps?} who lives in my head.  A confident, compelling man stood in his place.  Bearing a strong testimony of Prayer...and of the power the Gospel of Jesus Christ has to change lives. 

It was humbling really.  To be smacked in the face with the fact that I had missed the process...the "Becoming" of this {suddenly} man who I know will be an incredible missionary. 

It was similarly humbling to realize that my own little men are well into this "Becoming" themselves.  And that T's mission will have an enormous impact on their young lives. 

It's an impact that's already in motion.  The airport scene at 7 am Wednesday morning was nearly too much to bear.  On the ride to the airport, reality clicked for Aidan.  As he realized that T is going to be completely gone for two years.  We've talked about it, of course, but the words meant nothing until that moment of sudden clarity.  So when we finally got to the airport, I watched A's face working hard to control the emotions that threatened to take over.  Everyone gave their final hugs, but he wouldn't come forward.  Until T said, "Come give me a hug, Aidan."  Then he flew forward and the floodgates opened.  The boy was bawling. Completely overwrought. 

And in the car on the way home he said, "I don't know if T knows he's my favorite person."  That night, Davyn prayed that "T will come home safely next week."  We've amended the time frame over the past few days of prayer, but there's something to what D said really.  I'm sure T's mission will become his home.  It may take a week, but he has slipped so well into the calling that *home* won't be too far from the truth. 

On Tuesday night before being set apart, he said:  "I just feel calm.  And at peace."  There was no scurried frenzy. No worries about anything left undone.  No sigh at "having to follow the rules" now.   Just calm acceptance that he's stepping into something new and there's no room to drag the old along. 

Mike & Kay's house will definitely be quieter over the next two years.  I'll have to send my own boys over more often to fill the sound void.  Because they do seem to be gaining volume with the years, following in T's steps, no doubt.  Which is Perfectly fine by me.

a work in progress

As a mother, I sometimes feel invisible.  Like they've heard my voice so often and at so many different decibels that it's easy to tune it out at will.  Davyn has especially developed the habit of disappearing when asked to do work (which is much smarter than Aidan's attention-drawing arguing tactic, I must admit).  Or sometimes he'll just sit and ignore.  As though he doesn't hear. 

So, I've in turn developed the habit of resurrecting a song from my primary days.  "When my mother calls me, quickly I'll obey.  For mother knows just what is best, each and every day."  I sing the song.  He smiles at me and reluctantly gets up to do the task.  It's been a few weeks now though and I've shortened the routine to a simple "quickly I'll obey, Davyn" reminder as a p.s. to any spoken request. 

Yesterday: I'm upstairs getting ready for the day and Davyn is downstairs dawdling.  He shouts up, "Get me some clothes to wear."  I raise my brows a bit at the tone, mentally note the need to stress "please", but I  am by his room and on my way downstairs, so I go grab shorts and a shirt...and hear a little voice from the depths of the downstairs demanding, "quickly I'll obey, mom!"

I guess he listens more than I think.

D with his "ninja face"

baby girl

So after a few weeks of energy surge, I'm now lagging.  And lumbering.  And laboring.  To do the most menial tasks.  I figured it's just because I'm in my 8th month...and - heavens - I'm 35 now!  Well, today's doctor's appointment gave me one more reason for the slow-down. 

I had a let's-see-her-approximate-size-because-she-feels-big-when-I-measure-your-stomach ultrasound this morning.  And guess where my baby girl is at?!  Mind you, I'm 33 weeks pregnant.

5 pounds, 5 ounces. 

Wow.

Serious wow.

Jim was excited because, frankly, tiny babies make him nervous.  He thinks the bigger they are, the less likely they'll break.  I was initially stunned because I'd convinced myself that my *girl* would be smaller than the boys were (at this rate, however, she's likely to outpace them!).  But then I was excited when my doctor strongly encouraged me to be induced at 39 weeks.

Absolutely not a problem.

Scattered catch-up

Yesterday Davyn solemnly told me that I need to find an old Chinese man who can teach me to make wontons.  Making me realize I really need to start blogging again.  With that line to remember.   

Not to mention the first day of school, which has come and gone for Aidan. And I have to chide my friends with older children for not warning me about how literally loooooong all-day school is. I broke down by the end of the first week, wondering when I'd ever get to spend real time with my child again. Once they get home, do homework, play a bit, finish dinner...it's bedtime. Then it's suddenly the next morning and I'm rushing him off to further education. Again. While he tells me that he misses his room and *stuff*. And frets over when he'll get to spend time with the baby.

Who makes me more & more aware of her presence daily. Being a long-bodied woman, I've never had to fight the battle of a baby pushing up into my ribs. Such cooperative boys I grew. This girl child, however, despite the spaciousness below, insists on climbing up to hamper my breathing. And it's squishy. And it really lends me empathy for all of you short people who have ever carried babies. With no place but ribs to reside.

But, back to school...I do love the afternoon "how was your day?" conversations. On the first day, Aidan came home with this sole complaint: "Wearing shoes and socks all day is hot. I just want to take off all my clothes in class." I'm sure you can imagine his first action upon returning home. And the string of clothing trailing up the stairs. Then, the other day he cracked me up with this one. I guess he and some of the boys in his class play basketball, soccer, or football at recess daily (this child is so his father's son). So, one day he said (to be read with 6-year-old boy animation, please), "Then I made a sweet move while we were playing football, so Matthew M. told me to do it again in slow motion. We did the whole play over again in slow motion so we could remember it" (I repeat - so his father's son).

But, back to this baby. I'm kind of counting down at this point. 56 days. Which is less than two months. Which is good because the sleepless nights portion of pregnancy hit last week.

When Davyn solemnly informed me that my stomach simply can't get any larger.  Which was far better than Aidan's pregnant mom observation and query:  "as your belly grows, your brain shrinks" and "why does your bottom grow bigger if the baby is in your tummy?" 

Why indeed. 

at "meet the teacher", who happens to be his same teacher from last year, who we happen to love

1st day of school, happily allowing a little brother who really wanted to be part of the picture (did I mention that Davyn broke down for an entire afternoon when he finally realized he wouldn't be going to Kinder this year?)

To Aidan, suddenly six...

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.