“And she loved the
little boy very, very much...
even more than she
loved herself.”
from The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
Recently
I was accused of “favoritism” by a young lady with a keen sense of justice
named Grace Olding. She told me that she knew C.J., the baby, was my
favorite. When I asked her why she
would make such a ridiculous statement she didactically shared several damning
specific examples. I desperately tried to explain that babies needed extra
attention, and that her little brother was still a baby. She stoically looked
at me and commenced, “Mom – he is five.”
Panic
ensued. I tried to defend my stance that he was, in fact, still a baby. The
truth was impossible to avoid. He had been exhibiting symptoms of being a “boy”
for quite some time. He likes to jump from unreasonably high altitudes just to
see if he can “land it.” He enjoys reenactments of Ninja fights and epic
battles with Wolverine and Spiderman. He thinks anything that crashes or
explodes is cool. He has an uncanny ability to make vulgar noises using his
hand and his armpit. He even pees standing up… by himself! What happened to my
baby?
I
assured Grace that I had no favorites, but that I could understand how she
could mistake my behavior for favoritism.
After all, years ago when she wrote in pen on our first couch I was
livid and last week when I discovered that C.J. wrote his name in pen on our
leather couch I smiled and called it “cute.” It wasn’t that he was my favorite,
it was just that I had changed. Witnessing babies grow into people had shifted
my perspective. I wanted to savor every moment that I could at each age. I
wanted to remember sippy cups and super hero pajamas. I wanted to snuggle up
and watch Jake and the Neverland Pirates and find “Tags” the blanket to help
comfort C.J. because parenting three children had taught me some important lessons.
One specific lesson was that these little things are really the BIG things.
This
Friday “the baby” goes to kindergarten screening. Next year he will be in
school. This is the accelerating pace of my life. I wish sometimes I could just
slow time down a little bit so I could collect more memories, more Easter egg
hunts, more living room dance parties, more gingerbread houses, more magic. I have trouble knowing when to hang on and
when to let go. My instinct is to hang on –tightly. I often times have to
remind myself of an afternoon in my backyard last summer. C.J. desperately
wanted to learn how to ride a two- wheeler so he could keep up with his
sisters. He begged me to help him. His legs were so short and the bike was so
little. Bryan took off the training wheels and I ran behind him, clinging to
the bike. I was so afraid of him crashing. I ran faster and faster clutching the
seat of his little bike. He screamed “LET GO!” Instead, I ran even faster until
I realized I was slowing him down. I was
holding him back.
So
- I let go.
When I let
go, he didn’t wreck. He rode off squealing with joy. The truth is, C.J. hasn’t been a baby for
quite some time, but I am afraid he will be my baby forever. I just have to
