So This is How it Starts

Hmm. I am not entirely sure I want to go here. Blogging I mean. I could easily turn this into a vice, a necessity, an outlet than no one else wants to be part of or read:) My silent audience. Ahh - maybe this IS what I need.

I've been thinking of so many things lately (lately- huh! My brain hasn't shut off since I was born) and am over the days of diaries that I never filled out (writing on paper is soooo-o slow), stories half written, thoughts half expressed or over analyzed that they now seem like insanity...that I thought I'd start a blog. Yay me!

I am sure many of my entries will be about my son, Micah, now almost 4. He is the center of my world, as any little boy should be:) I don't know where to start with talking about him. Well, maybe I do. I wrote this, this, THING about him being 3 this past summer. So I'll post it and go from there:

Three.

My son Micah is three. Three. At three he runs tirelessly, eats constantly, grows quickly (out of everything), speaks intelligently, contemplates major things and comes full circle with many thoughts. Impressive. Before I had a child, I thought three meant small and cute and cuddly, and just, well, there. You know, throw him a cracker, pop in a movie, the usual. I learned quickly that was not the case. Micah is funny, articulate and pretty good at almost everything he tries. Shame on me for thinking three- year- olds were anything but incredible!

He took his first swimming lessons this week and I think I was more anxious than he was. He goes to preschool, so he understands the teacher/student relationship, and while I felt I thoroughly prepped him on listening and trying his best, especially around water (for the obvious safety reasons), I was worried. I was worried that he would be afraid. He loves the water, swims great with a life jacket, but this was a new ballgame. I could see every emotion, feel them almost, as he sat there, trying to comprehend the instruction.

“Blow bubbles, kick, turn your hands into ice cream scoops and push the water away,” his teacher said.

He was trying his best to believe me that the person I allowed to be in charge of him in the water would keep him safe. I could tell that by his timid face and his constant looks back to make sure I was still there. Micah is no introvert, but when it comes to him being uneasy, he wants his mommy. I sometimes revel in that, knowing that will soon not be the case. So, here I was, on the bleachers, watching him, and he listened. He tried. He succeeded. He said no to going under the water other day, but he agreed to try today, after much coaxing and promise of a matchbox car if he did it (bribery, sometimes evil, sometimes God’s gift). So, as the last words came out of the teacher’s mouth, “ready Micah?” I saw him panic, but not refuse, and he did it. He came up, looked miserable, about to cry, looked for me, and I nearly bounded down the bleachers to hug and kiss him. Realizing that might freak everyone out, I just stood and cheered. Another mom next to me smiled and did the same. There’s nothing like mom support when you can hardly control your pride in your child.

I was thinking the other day how awesome it is to raise a child, a person. I mean, that’s what I am doing. I am thoroughly aware that I don’t have some kid to watch and entertain (or throw a cracker to), but a spirit to encourage and inspire, a will to sometimes break, to sometimes build, and a brain to teach right and wrong to. What a job.

While he can drive me completely over the edge, causing me to question my own self control, he can also speak to me so kindly, so lovingly and is actually quite empathetic to people. We talk a lot about people who have less than we do. We pray for them at night and I wonder, in his little mind, what he imagines as I say the words “God, please watch over and protect all the boys and girls in the world and the mommies and daddies who need help. Help us to help them. If we can’t, please send others to help them.” I learned last Christmas, that he knows what that means after all those nightly prayers.. When he was given the choice to spend his $1 on candy or donate it to the Santa with the Salvation Army, he said, “let’s help the kids.” He knew. He was 2 ½.

Now by no means is he some angelic genius. He is a fighter…through and through. He will test me and cause me to want to get my tubes tied. He will remind me of the words he is not allowed to say. Nearly every day he says “Mommy, we can’t say shut up or I hate you….RIGHT?” Obviously that’s his way of saying them without getting in trouble –by acknowledging he can’t say them. He spanks our dogs, all the time, because he wants to be in charge. We’re working on that one. He absolutely must have the correct number of grapes in his bowl…not that he counts them all, but if there is any space left in the bottom of the bowl, he knows it’s not full. If I give him a cup of juice that is too full, he refuses to drink it down and I must pour half back in the container. What else? This is a tough one. My father smokes. We try, very hard, to limit Micah’s exposure to my dad while he is enjoying this activity. But, he loves my dad and at first thought it was some cool thing Pop Pop did. He even put his crayon box in his pocket and said they were his “smokes.” Of course I freaked out, feeling like I was the worst parent ever, angry at my dad…and proceeded to point out ALL that is bad and wrong about smoking. He gets it now. He gets it so much that he tells any and every adult that they should not smoke and how they won’t be able to play basketball or run. I know adults find it annoying, but all I can think is “That’s my guy!”

At three Micah can see his wrong, admit it and occasionally apologize without coaxing. At three he can ride in the back of my car, look out the window toward the sky and say, “good job, God! Mommy, did you see what God painted?” That one gets me every time. At three he knows what good behavior is, reminds me of the good job he is doing IN TIME OUT and can barely wait to get into trouble upon release. At three he can ride a bike, skip, hop, dance, sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” to the hundreds of baby frogs he catches in our yard. At three he can miss me, be angry with me and be frustrated by my unwillingness to bend. But in the end, we come full circle and love each other very much.

I just turned 30, and while that is young to some, old to others, it’s new to me. It’s a time in my life when I am learning to be comfortable in my own skin, my own parenting skills and my own ability to truly raise a person. I figure the wrinkles to come will be mostly from laughing at my son, crying with him and loving him through any and all things. Thirty is ok. Three is way better.