Charlie and I are driving along the freeway, running a morning errand. Suddenly, he spots something on the side of the road.
Charlie: "Mom, yook!"
Me: "What is it?"
"Oooh! It's yions! Yions! Yions!"
My heart falls into my stomach for brief moment. I turn my head to see what he sees. Relieved, I turn my attention back to the road.
"Those are cows, Charlie."
"Oh, yeah. Cows. Dose are cows!"
Brett and I celebrated our ten-year wedding anniversary last week. After finding an ancient but still perfectly usable gift card while cleaning out the cabinets above the fridge, we dropped the boys off at Aunt Nini's house and headed to a snazzy restaurant in Salt Lake City. We had a great waiter, great food, and tasty Boat Drinks (what we call any fruity drink that reminds us of our Jamaican honeymoon). During dinner, I asked Brett what were some of his favorite moments, looking back on these ten years. He thought a moment or two, and then tears welled behind his glasses.
"Seeing Jacky for the first time."
My tears followed. "Yeah, that was a good one," I said.
That moment came to us six years ago. Now our Jacky is six years old.
Jack, Daddy and I have been parents for six years now. Six. But we haven't been your average, ordinary parents. Because we've been the parents of you. And that has made us into something special. Extraordinary.
The three of us, we've been through a lot:
Through your first few months... us trying to figure it all out (and getting
in naps with the babe, as we'd read you should do). And trying to figure out
cloth diapering, too. (Look at that huge diaper on your teeny baby body!) Sorry about that. We're old hat at it now.
Through... SLEEP. You cried every night for three and a half months straight. For two to four hours each night. You terrified me. Your dad and I took turns walking (and walking, and walking) you to loud LOUD music until you finally succumbed. My sister, your Aunt Laurie, told me that one day you would skip a night of crying. And that would happen more and more often. She was right. Oh thank you, Aunt Laurie. Thank you for telling me that. It's what got me through.
Through toddlerhood. And the advent of your fascination with all things dress up...
(including marker lids)
(and pudding)
...and all things Super.
Through preschool...
... and through a monumental advent. A brother.
And finally, through your past year. Your kindergarten year. Which was...
wild
wonderful
wacky
whimsical
a little warped
and sometimes, just plain weird.
Through. Through six years of our lives, with you. Sometimes I wish I'd had you earlier. At 30, at 28, at 26. I wish we hadn't waited so long. Because then I could spend more of my life with you. But that wish-come-true runs the risk of our story changing. And I love our story. The story of me and you. The story of our little family of four.
Through our lives, with you. I like that.
On to year seven.
Me: (Gasp.) "Who did this, Charlie?"
Charlie: "Um. Ummmm, I dunno."
"Noooo... Who did this?"
"Um, I draw. I draw, um... Uh, I draw ... a airpane. It pretty!"
"Yes, it's beautiful. But where do we draw?"
"On da walls."
"Noooo..."
"Oh! On da paper."
"Thank you. That's better."
(History repeating itself, brother to brother. See here.)
