Today at 5:18 you will turn 2 years old. I always hate it when people are all like “where does time go?” but seriously, kid, this getting too big too quickly has got to give your poor bedraggled mother a break. Stop getting so big!
(Pictures, for the interim, can be found here, at my Flickr account. I tried to upload a picture of me holding Amelia, and it was so big that it made my armpit look like a vagina)
The first thing I thought when I saw you was “OHMYGOD, I gave birth to Elmer Fudd” (but since I thought “OHMYGOD I gave birth to a statue” when I birthed your sister, I think you have it pretty good. I was in too much pain–no epidural for pushing and subsequent hemorrhage from his gigantic melon–when your brother was born, so I was barely conscious) but the first thing other people thought (besides your father, who may have gotten slightly teary while waxing poetic about your beauty) was “Holy Shit, he looks like Dave.”
And you do.
But, my love, you also look like your mother. And if people don’t see it, all they have to do is to hang out with you for an hour or so to realize that even if you’re not my spitting image–that honor was bestowed upon your sister, poor girl–you’re my clone. Your personality is all mine and I’m more than pleased to take credit for it.
Sure, you might be able to destroy a room faster than, well, a tornado, and maybe your screams of joy and horrifying temper may drive other people away (I’m looking at your grandmother on your father’s side) or to drink, but in every shriek of your gigantic mouth, I can hear me.
You’re 100% boy, all rough and tumble and stinky feet and throwing rocks, (although I just claimed ownership for your personality, I am not a dude. My sweater kittens and ability to shoot kids from my nether regions says as much.) which pretty much makes you your brothers exact opposite. You’re born opposites in every way I can think of besides the sweet streak that is obviously of your father.
I know it’s a lot to put on a child, and trust me when I tell you that it’s not something you’ll ever be able to change, no matter what happens, but you, my son, you are the one who made me feel like a mother. Your brother, as you’ll learn, was blessed with some pretty interesting issues and sits pretty squarely on the autistic spectrum. One of his challenges and one of the hardest things about parenting him is that he lacks a real ability to show his emotions. It’s okay in day to day life (who needs an emotional basketcase for a 7 year old?), but as a mother, it broke my heart so often I cannot believe it’s whole.
Then you came along, Sweet Baby J, and you reminded me that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t just a lousy mother. While that certainly translated into a relationship that you couldn’t bear to be apart from me for even a single moment, it rarely bothered me. Nothing can top seeing you vibrate with joy, your little legs pumping up and down when you see me at the top of the stairs. You fill up the house with your “MMOOOOOOMMMMYY!!” and jump into my arms when I open them to you.
Nothing, not even a brand-new Prada purse can top that feeling.
I’ll admit, Mr. Jubbs, that I was highly nervous about bringing your sister home from the hospital, as you are an admitted Momma’s Boy. I was terrified that you’d try and club her to death with one of your many soccer balls (GOOOOAAALLL balls, as you call them, you soccer nut you) or poke out her eyeballs like a bird, but you seem….okay with her. You’re not really sure what to make of her which I cannot blame you for, but you know she’s yours.
I know that you think of her often because your mantra is this “Mommy, Dada, MeYA” and you chant this when you’re:
6) Furious George HULK SMASH>
Your poor brother, who thinks that the sun rises and sets on you, has earned the name of “EW.” Which sounds nothing like “Ben,” nor has it ever been anything we’ve called Ben, EVER. But you call him “EW,” you drag him by the shirt or pants from room to room, occasionally insisting that he get on the floor so that you can jump on top of him and wrestle him silly. He doesn’t object–he loves it–and it’s one of your favorite things to do.
Last year, if you remember, I wanted to pay tribute to the little lives of babies I’ve met who have been lost too soon. I urged my readers to do something nice for someone–even themselves–in the name of these lost little souls and their parents, who wait here on Earth without them. The kindness that I saw was unbelievable and amazing: I have some of the best, sweetest readers on the planet.
So today, as I celebrate my son, I celebrate the lives of my lost nieces and nephews with kindness to others. I urge you to help me to spread the love. Do something, anything, kind for someone else. Leave me a comment, let me know what you do. I’ll randomly select someone to send something to.
Join me in remembering:
Baby K, Gabriel Connor, Christian Elliot
(Please let me know via comment or email to becky (at) dwink (dot) net if you’d like me to add another to my posts of remembrance.)
So, Alexander, here’s to another year behind us. I can hardly wait to be your mother for another whole year.
I love you bigger than the sky, my sweet baby boy.