There is a great deal about a pregnancy that is No Longer mysterious to us here in the West, where developmental stages are recorded and reported with calculable accuracy, where ultrasounds provide three-dimensional images and news of gender, and where some illnesses and disabilities can be diagnosed and even treated before the baby is born.
With Everett, we knew we were having Another Boy, a fact that gave us Very Real Delight. And also we now knew what we were doing, as this was the Second Child. Things would be (wouldn’t they?) So Much Easier the second go ’round. We named him Everett Richard early on– “Everett” for my mother’s family and those precious grandparents who wouldn’t know him on this side of eternity, and “Richard” for my father.
No small shoes to fill in either regard.
His eyes were blue on the Sunday morning he was born, but they were deep chocolate by that Wednesday, and the thick black hair that stood up all over his head and curled just so reminded me of the down of a baby bird. I called him my Owlet.
Also, he never slept.
For three months.
But what does lack of sleep matter, really, when you are getting to know someone? We spent a lot of time together in those early days, and I cried a lot from lack of sleep and wished for two hours together in my bed and learned what it meant to “pray continually” from toddler days that followed after sleepless nights.
But I loved him ardently. I remember saying, in a moment of clarity, that I was excited to find out who he’d be. I think he might have been about six weeks old at the time.
He is not, of course, anything like the Owlet anymore. He is a full-fledged ten-year-old who sleeps soundly all night and wishes he didn’t have to get up so early for school. But he is also a boy who squanders his sleeping-in potential of a Saturday morning because– lo and behold– it is Saturday! X-Box and Runescape beckon him. Why sleep in when such joys await us?
Yes, he is suddenly a ten-year-old who loves skateboards and scooters and Anything Fast. On one red-letter-day this past summer, he went tubing on the Connecticut River and got to ride on Uncle Janke’s motorcycle. That was Good.
He also loves to sit in the front seat of our Mini-Cooper and operate the gear shift. He seldom needs to be told to do so: his early love of automobiles has translated into an intuitive sense about anything having to do with driving. I’m pretty sure he Absolutely Already Knows how to drive, but his legs aren’t quite long enough for that yet.
He contents himself, for now, with the speed and dexterity required of the skateboard. He would spend hours a day at the skatepark if he could, but when there he is frustrated by what he can’t yet do. I try to comfort him with the encouragement that practice makes a difference and that, as he gets older, he’ll get better. I think, from his perspective and in this area, at least, he can’t get older fast enough.
But he does seem fairly content, most of the time. He’s an easy-going kid who thrives on Certain Friendships, and a peaceful home, and adequate time to himself. Oh, and his kitties.
He likes school well enough and does beautifully. The largest complaint is neatness (er- lack thereof), an issue we don’t take terribly seriously. What we do love is that his favorite subject is Bible, and that he asks deep questions, and that he’s Always Thinking.
We are proud of his hard work, and his drumming (he got a set for his birthday), his participation in the Trinity School Children’s Chorus, and the fact that he completed his first triathlon this fall. We love his uncanny ability to reproduce the sound of R2D2 in distress, his brilliant sense of humor, and the ferocity of his hugs.
Simple. Straightforward. Everett.
Not hardly. They are all mysteries to us, aren’t they? our children?
Who knows what goes on behind those chocolate eyes? I think it was in July he said to me: “Mom, there are things about me you don’t know.” Nothing defensive in his tone. Just matter-of-fact, observant.
“I know,” I said to him. “And that’s just fine.”
It’s my privilege to tuck this Mystery in at night, to help him tape up the ripped edges of his math page, to hear him recite his memory work for school. It’s my honor to know intuitively that he’s about to cry, so that I can protect him from embarrassment, and usher him out of the room just in time.
It’s my joy to watch this Mystery unfold.
Only one person, you know, can be his mother.
Sometimes, I’ll admit it, I imagine that I’d like to have one of those early nights back, sleepless, with his little round head bobbing at my shoulder, and his hair like down drifting near my cheek, and all these ten years yet ahead of us.
One of those nights, I said. Just one would suffice.
Happy Birthday, Dear Boy!
