Last night I watched my son sleep. I don't think he was completely asleep, because he managed to jerk his head away when I tried to kiss his precious rosy smooth cheeks. He still doesn't realize that if he jerks away mid-kiss, he's more likely to end up with a wet kiss than if he just lets me moosh my closed, pursed lips against his forhead or cheek. When he jerks, he invariably takes my top lip with him, forcing me to plant a sloppy smack. Neither of us want that.
Anyhow, I watched him sleep, looking so much like a baby and so much like a big kid at the same time. He's ten. With such a giant head and such big feet that we were forced to buy size 8 hockey skates - instead of inheriting a pair from the kid's hockey league - and we're going up to Anaheim tomorrow to purchase a brand new men's size large hockey helmet. (We have to go up to the Hockey SuperStore in Anaheim to try on the helmet and have it custom fit with a child's face guard, since an adult's face guard would be way too big and allow a puck or a stick right through.) But his face, especially in repose, is a baby face. He has this incredibly thick wavy hair that I love to run my fingers through and push off his forehead. When I do that and see his high, smooth forehead and pouty mouth, he looks not much different than he did at age four. He's just bigger.
And that makes me wonder what I would have thought back then about this Noah now. Back when he was four years old and I wondered who he'd be. Would I have felt relief that he'd outgrow some of his more challenging and worrying traits and habits? Would I have felt frightened that I'd end up with such a smart, smart son, who at 10 has become an expert (really) in all his areas of interest? His math skills are better than mine. He spouts facts on fish, fishing, fish ecosystems, Catholicism, weapons, general science, politics, fish, and fish (and fish) that are precise, exact, and delightfully worded. Sometimes when I listen to him, I laugh with amazement and glee. "Why is that fishing line bright green, Noah?" I ask as we watch a documentary on monster fish we found on TV, much to his delight. "Well, monofilament is difficult to manufacture," he explains, as my smile begins. "And it can be made in several colors, but..." I can't even remember what he said, but the thrill of hearing my little professor succinctly explain why the line was green is still with me. During that same show he scoffed when they showed a large sharp-toothed jawbone from a mystery fish that they surmised was a pike. "That's too big to be a pike. It's got to be a muskilunge. They're related and live in the same area." I've never even heard of a muskilunge. Have you? Imagine my utter amazement when the spokes-scientist later declared that the jawbone actually belonged to the muskilunge, the pike's larger cousin. Ha! I think I laughed out loud. Did I mention that when it comes to fish he's self-taught?
Would I have been all that impressed that he'd found answers to the questions he used to pose to me tirelessly, endlessly when he was 4, 5, 6? "What's the difference between a pond and a lake?" "How salty is brackish water?" "Where does brackish water begin?" " Where does it stop being salty or fresh?" "How does it stop being fresh?" "Can fish who live in the brackish water eventually move to salty or fresh water if they do it slowly enough?" (He already had the idea of acclimation in that big baby head of his.) Would I marvel that I'd soon be able to ask him things that I was curious about and expect a real, dependable answer?
I'm so proud of my son, and feel so lucky to have a son like him, that I wish I could share him with not just my friends and family, but with my other selves. With the young woman who wished for a child but assumed she'd never have one. With the nervous pregnant mother who was sure they'd made a mistake up in heaven and given a baby to the wrong mother and were about to take it back when they recognized their mistake. With the new mother who was so exhausted and worried about doing every little thing right. With the single, working mother of a child diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome who scrambled to read every word on the subject, in hopes of giving him everything he might ever need. All of those Ambers would have been so happy to know this Noah. They would all have been giddy with happiness and fallen madly in love. And I have a feeling that the Amber I am yet to become will look back on the Amber I am now and think...Wow, if only you could look ahead and see this incredible miracle who is your 20 year-old son, you'd be beside yourself with awe and joy. And, of course, I am and will continue to be.
Anyhow, I watched him sleep, looking so much like a baby and so much like a big kid at the same time. He's ten. With such a giant head and such big feet that we were forced to buy size 8 hockey skates - instead of inheriting a pair from the kid's hockey league - and we're going up to Anaheim tomorrow to purchase a brand new men's size large hockey helmet. (We have to go up to the Hockey SuperStore in Anaheim to try on the helmet and have it custom fit with a child's face guard, since an adult's face guard would be way too big and allow a puck or a stick right through.) But his face, especially in repose, is a baby face. He has this incredibly thick wavy hair that I love to run my fingers through and push off his forehead. When I do that and see his high, smooth forehead and pouty mouth, he looks not much different than he did at age four. He's just bigger.
And that makes me wonder what I would have thought back then about this Noah now. Back when he was four years old and I wondered who he'd be. Would I have felt relief that he'd outgrow some of his more challenging and worrying traits and habits? Would I have felt frightened that I'd end up with such a smart, smart son, who at 10 has become an expert (really) in all his areas of interest? His math skills are better than mine. He spouts facts on fish, fishing, fish ecosystems, Catholicism, weapons, general science, politics, fish, and fish (and fish) that are precise, exact, and delightfully worded. Sometimes when I listen to him, I laugh with amazement and glee. "Why is that fishing line bright green, Noah?" I ask as we watch a documentary on monster fish we found on TV, much to his delight. "Well, monofilament is difficult to manufacture," he explains, as my smile begins. "And it can be made in several colors, but..." I can't even remember what he said, but the thrill of hearing my little professor succinctly explain why the line was green is still with me. During that same show he scoffed when they showed a large sharp-toothed jawbone from a mystery fish that they surmised was a pike. "That's too big to be a pike. It's got to be a muskilunge. They're related and live in the same area." I've never even heard of a muskilunge. Have you? Imagine my utter amazement when the spokes-scientist later declared that the jawbone actually belonged to the muskilunge, the pike's larger cousin. Ha! I think I laughed out loud. Did I mention that when it comes to fish he's self-taught?
Would I have been all that impressed that he'd found answers to the questions he used to pose to me tirelessly, endlessly when he was 4, 5, 6? "What's the difference between a pond and a lake?" "How salty is brackish water?" "Where does brackish water begin?" " Where does it stop being salty or fresh?" "How does it stop being fresh?" "Can fish who live in the brackish water eventually move to salty or fresh water if they do it slowly enough?" (He already had the idea of acclimation in that big baby head of his.) Would I marvel that I'd soon be able to ask him things that I was curious about and expect a real, dependable answer?
I'm so proud of my son, and feel so lucky to have a son like him, that I wish I could share him with not just my friends and family, but with my other selves. With the young woman who wished for a child but assumed she'd never have one. With the nervous pregnant mother who was sure they'd made a mistake up in heaven and given a baby to the wrong mother and were about to take it back when they recognized their mistake. With the new mother who was so exhausted and worried about doing every little thing right. With the single, working mother of a child diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome who scrambled to read every word on the subject, in hopes of giving him everything he might ever need. All of those Ambers would have been so happy to know this Noah. They would all have been giddy with happiness and fallen madly in love. And I have a feeling that the Amber I am yet to become will look back on the Amber I am now and think...Wow, if only you could look ahead and see this incredible miracle who is your 20 year-old son, you'd be beside yourself with awe and joy. And, of course, I am and will continue to be.
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