Today is a day that many people spend thinking about the romantic love in their lives, or the lack there of. They spend a small fortune on perishable items, many of which are used up and forgotten, or gifted to people whose presence in their lives will be short lived. They eat chocolate, dine in expensive restaurants and try to out do their lovers best efforts.
Personally, I like to spend today kicked back, enjoying a death by chocolate brownie, a glass of skim milk and a good book. It's one of four days a year that I may cry for no good reason. I will spend it celebrating the presence of someone in my life who I love very much, and who changed it very dramatically. But it won't be my darling Gene. It won't be my best girlfriends. Or even my mom and dad. No, today I will reward myself for accomplishing a feat I never would have thought possible. Seven years ago today, I delivered a nine pound, twelve and a half ounce, twenty two and half inch baby boy. And I hardly broke a sweat.
That's right, girls. It was a breeze. (Just in case you feel the need to throw flowers at my feet, I like carnations.) Scotty was my second born. He out weighed my eldest by more than two pounds and was more than an inch longer. He also had a head full of dark brown hair, which has now been replaced by a handsome orange-ish red that matches well every hair color in the family save one--mine. He's also a fairly small child. About average height and weight. Deceptively thin, he looks like a wimp but is remarkably strong.
Right from the start he was a pistol. We called him "Cranky Wayne" when he was newborn. When my boys were tiny, I often propped them up in their carseat, unbuckled, but at my feet, while I took care of household tasks. One day when he was about two months old, I had done just that while I washed the dishes. It only took him a few minutes to scoot his bottom down far enough to get out of that seat and flip it over on top of himself. He began walking at eight months, but even before that he would scoot around (he never crawled) holding paperback novels that he retrieved from my book collection and trying to get me to read them to him. He spoke in complete sentences before his first birthday. At about age four he decided he wanted to learn how to read. So he figured it out on his own. He started Kindergarten reading fairly well for a child his age. At the beginning of first grade we had to fight, alongside his really awesome teacher, for him to have access to library books that were even ALMOST a challenge. He blew away the placement testing. Now, about half way through the school year, he is approaching his third grade brother. And Eddie reads well into the Middle School Range.
I guess I sound like I have a problem with humility. I think that is entirely possible when it comes to my four boys. But don't let me misguide you. Scotty has given me more writing material than I would care to discuss. And it is seriously not funny. At least not right away. A little story to illustrate.
When Scotty was about eighteen months old, we lived in a tiny little duplex. It had a basement which housed the washer and dryer, but the steps down to it were shared with the next door neighbor. Doing laundry was a real production, what with running up and down and hauling things one direction or another. One fine summer day while I was trying to do said laundry, Scotty decided that he was thirsty. Actually, to be more specific, he was thirsty for juice. I tried to reason with the child, I didn't have any juice just then. At least none that didn't resemble an ice brick. So I quickly filled his cup with milk and ran downstairs to change the laundry. When I returned, Scotty was standing in the kitchen looking mutinous.
"Where is your cup?" I asked him.
"Shoos!" He replied.
"Where is your cup?" I asked again.
"Shoos!"
This conversation continued for quite some time. Finally I gave up. (Any smart mother would have thrown in the towel shortly after spotting the little dear, wearing only a diaper, with his arms crossed over his chest and a very amusing glower on his face. But not me! I like to have my way, too.) I began searching the house. I checked the fridge, the toy box, the basket under the stroller, even the toilet. Finally I returned to the kitchen. Scotty stood just where I had left him, arms crossed and glower in place.
"Where is your cup?"
"Shoos!"
Yikes! It was time to change the laundry again. As I walked toward the door I spotted it. Lying all alone at the bottom of the trash can. We compromised. I washed the cup and filled it with kool-aid. And he never tried to dispose of his cup in exactly that way again.
I can laugh about this now. It even almost seems cute. I can only hope that in a few years I will be able to look back at his current antics and laugh. The truth of the matter is that I love this child far beyond reason. I suppose that is true for most of us. Children have a way of being loved, often in spite of themselves. Scotty is sometimes one of these cases. And sometimes not.
Tonight, while you are out with your sweetheart being wined and dined, don't look for me and my family. We'll be at home, eating Shepard's Pie and Red Velvet cupcakes and honoring a young man we adore. And maybe, when the lights are out and the sound of soft breathing fills my little rural home, you can find me in my bed. Thinking of all the times that have been, and all that will be. Feeling his adulthood pressing in on me like a wieght. And letting the tears roll down my face unchecked.
Thank God for you, Scotty.
