I got pregnant at age 39. Swiftly calculating months (all those accounting classes being put to use), I realized that I was going to be 40 years old before my first child was even born. By my nearest calculation, several of my high school friends were already grandparents. I would be retirement age by the time he/she graduated from college. I'd be ready to be put to pasture, waiting for someone to push me around the old folks home, and looking forward to tapioca Sunday. So, at age 40 years, seven weeks, I gave birth to a premature ball of fire that hasn't slowed down yet.
The kid oozed personality from day one, and it wasn't just a momma's opinion. He was a happy, smiley, laughing little boy, even when at three and a half, he battled chicken pox, a double ear infection, strep throat, and scarletina....all at the same time. The kid charmed people so much, his pediatrician, who had four of her own, arranged play dates with him and her children. This sort of popularity taught him early the value of charm, and it was a lesson he has never forgotten. This is best illustrated by a sentence I have heard from just about every teacher the boy has had - from kindergarten to high school...."It's impossible to stay mad at Eric." Look, I have no desire to know what he did to arouse your wrath because I'll probably be able to counter with 'you think *that's* bad,", but please, do not give in to the urge to let him charm you out of it. I have enough problems keeping my own wrath at home.
The cuteness for teachers started in first grade when he wrote a Valentine's poem to his father and I, which in part reads: "pupet shows are good but not as good as my momy and dady. there bestis parents ever. the thing that loves my heart the best is my parents mom and dad. my mom and dad ar the bestis parents I ever new. they were there when I was born and that ment a lot to me." Kid has no idea how I tried to be elsewhere when he was born. His father took the manly way out and stood outside the hospital and smoked until it was over. I tried like heck to join him, but they said my presence was required. I’m still doubting that.
Consider also, the time when Eric was about eight and wanted to go down the street and play with the neighborhood boys. I told him, sure.....just as soon as he cleaned his room. He marched upstairs in a huff, mumbling and grumbling something about me being the meanest mom on the block, which I took as the highest form of compliment one can take from an eight year old. It wasn't long, however until he was back downstairs, informing me that we needed to have a serious discussion. Imagine my surprise, when he informed me that he was sick and tired of doing everything around the house and I needed to pitch in and do my share. He cleaned his room. He cleaned his bathroom. He cleaned the living room, the family room, and the table after dinner. All I ever did was sit on the deck, drink wine and read. I dare you to try and keep a straight face while being lectured on your slothful ways by a 60 pound, blond, blue-eyed he-devil on his high horse.
It wasn't long after that when I was baking some cookies for school and he got completely ticked off when I would not let him eat any, because I was responsible for a certain number and I wasn't going to let him ruin my count. He left in his usual huff. Fifteen minutes later the doorbell rang, and I answered it, oven mitts on, and spatula in hand. On the front porch was my son, dressed in his Sunday go to meetin' clothes (complete with clip-on tie.) He held a clipboard that had a piece of paper on it and he checked things off as he asked me questions...all in a very serious manner. He first verified the address to make sure he was at the correct house. Then he asked if I was the lady of the house, and was my name Sue Jochens? I verified his suppositions, and he went on, still reading from his clipboard. "I'm from the bakery and your neighbors say you make very good chocolate chip cookies and we're looking for a new baker. Do you have any I could test?" He got his cookie and I still have the piece of paper which has our address, my name, and "good cookies" written on it in his childish scrawl.
Eric has taught me so much, like the value of a bike helmet that saved him from serious head injury when he hit a hole and went flying over the top of his bike. A broken tooth that could be capped is nothing compared to what would have happened if he had had his way that day and gone off without his helmet.
Patience...my goodness has that boy taught me patience. I have serious tongue scars from biting it to keep my mouth shut over the years. He taught me that even with the help of a patient mother, a man cannot be trained to aim accurately in the bathroom, or to put the toilet seat down when he is finished not aiming. There is a funny story there too. He was maybe four and put off the potty break too long, because when he finally ran into the bathroom and dropped his pants (four-year-olds don't have zippers), it was not to be controlled, and as it sprayed all over the bathroom, you could hear him talk to it, I'm assuming trying to coax the little thing into his hand so he could pretend to aim. It was all for naught. He never did grab hold of the little sucker. I only made him clean the parts of the bathroom he could reach, as punishment for putting it off too long. When we moved, we had to paint the ceiling.
This blog is already too long, and I’m still reminiscing about elementary school. I guess I should wrap this up and save other things for other times.
At 4:33 this morning, Eric turned 19 years old. He has grown into a fine young man who I only occasionally want to throttle, and of whom I am proud of all the time. He's kind, considerate, smart, perceptive, and funny as all get out. If there was a place to go to where I could pick any son ever to be mine, I would choose him in a heartbeat. I am the luckiest mother in the world, and look forward to seeing what sort of man he becomes. I'm sure he'll be a charmer that you just can't stay mad at. Happy Birthday, Bud. I love you more than you’ll ever know.
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