Seven Times Four

This baby tooth did not make it under the pillow.  Such is the life of the fourth kid in our family. Too busy running to wrestling practice.  He is unfazed and a beautiful new "pernament" tooth will grow in its place and he'll be no worse for the wear.

"Can I have a Popsicle?" he asks to no one in particular.  And no one answers.  Too busy painting the front door.  So he helps himself.  A short time later he walks by with what is probably his 10th sugary snack.  "Who said you could have that?"  I inquire.  "I asked and nobody said I couldn't have one."  Simple and brilliant. Just like him.   

"Mommy, I know you will probably say no but can I please play X-box."  This is the way he asks all of his questions.  Crafted to prevent disappointment on his part.  Front loaded to maximize the chance I'll say yes out of guilt.

"Mommy, can I go outside and run around?"  The requests are rarely ridiculous.  Most often they involve simple things like appropriately timed meals and opportunities to freely play.  Too often nobody answers.

takka takka ratta-tat-tat takka pew pew pew - soft noises spew from his little bow shaped mouth as his finger guns pick off imaginary foes in the backyard.  He literally runs wind-sprints around the perimeter of the small fenced lot, deeply embedded in his pretend world of army guys and zombies.

His most often asked question lately is "Mommy, do we have wrestling practice?" He asks this with great trepidation and when the answer is yes his eyes fill with fear.  He hates wrestling.  He hates practice.  He is gentle and sweet.  He has no killer instinct on the mat.   No interest in anything more than his imaginary world.

I have made him soft.  My parenting has changed so much since the other Monkey's were seven.  My sharp edges and high expectations have eroded away like rocks pounded by waves.  With his siblings I was demanding in all areas, schools, sports, and acts of service.  For better or for worse.

To fully understand you would have to have known me then.

He goes to wrestling because that is what we do, but he is only expected to show up.  I spend my time there reminding him to breath and calmly talking him off of his anxious ledge.  I do not call out from the sidelines for him to be more offensive, more aggressive.  I simply let him be.

The other Monkey's are appalled.   They tell him stories of their crazy mother ranting on the way home from practices about lost opportunities to improve and the dangers of not giving 100% effort in all things.   He'll never know that woman. 

I look at him and my heart melts.  His giant blue eyes fringed with white blonde lashes stare up at me as he climbs into my lap to snuggle.  I feel how big he is getting, now more than half my length. My baby. 

I could never He goes with the flow better than anyone in our family.  In order to not be forgotten he takes residence in someone's pocket (mostly mine)

Just like this post...his life is segmented, disjointed and chaotic.