I have a little boy.
He is a carbon copy of his father. . .so it’s a good thing I love his daddy and his daddy’s quirkiniess so much, ’cause the apple landed RIGHT UNDER that tree.
He is a sweet boy. He loves me. He likes to sleep with my nightgowns because they “smell like mommy” (which is Lavender and Camomile lotion from Johnson and Johnson. . .which is the same thing I used to put on him when he was a baby which is why I started using it–’cause it smelled like my babies).
He tries to use me as a jungle gym in church. We have a discipline plan–but he still tries. Sunday morning we sat in the balcony on a row that had no pew in front of it–just the walkway. At some point during the opening song, he fell (for reasons unknown) from the pew on all fours onto the floor. He is also skinny–so his khakis sort of stuck up in the air above his bottom. He had barely touched the ground before I lifted him bodily, one-handed mind you, by his pooching khakis, back onto the pew accompanied by a stern reprimand. He did, however, give the visitor behind us a thrill, because after church she complimented my one-handed retrieval of the loose boy and said it was all she could do not to faint from holding in her laughter. His Daddy missed the whole thing even though he was on the same pew.
Apple. . .tree.
My boy has a very sensitive fairness meter that only he knows the limits of. You can, without any warning whatsoever, tread upon his sense of fairness causing his shoulders to droop as though laden with the cares of the world. This is normally (and immediately) followed by him flopping face first onto any handy piece of furniture (my lap is also considered a piece of furniture by the inhabitants of my house) or running upstairs to do the same on his bed.
He has a “helper” in his Sunday morning class–a man in his 50’s who has to use a walker because of a motorcycle accident he had at the age of 22. He slurs his words and moves slowly. Thad speaks to him after church every Sunday when he sees him. Sometimes the man doesn’t notice him at first, but Thad keeps on tugging on his coat sleeve until he gets his attention. Then he waves, and says, “Hi,” and gives him a hug.
My boy will walk up to his sister and kiss her on the cheek just because he thinks she looks pretty that day.
(“Victoria, be still. I need to kiss you.”)
We held him out of kindergarten this year in favor of a bridge class. THANK. GOODNESS. His teacher’s whole goal for this school year is just to get him to finish his work in the allotted amount of time. When I told him he needed to work more quickly he said, “My teacher says to do your best,and my best is not fast.” He also says, “My hands are slow like my feet.” He’s really not slow–he just chooses to meander~saunter~sashay through life. Atleast he is self aware.
And on Monday night when he said the prayer for supper, during his conversation with God he said, “And thank you for the good Bible story yesterday. . .and if I was in heaven, I would just look at you, and hug you, and kiss you. . .”
By the grace of God, I have a little boy.