Boy Howdy

Sometimes I put a cardboard box on my head and fart quietly in the corner of the room. ~~CJ, age 6

Lest you wonder if I've been in a horrible accident in which I've lost my fingers and leaving me unable to punch out a post over the previous couple of months, let it be known that my hands have merely been busy tending to this little guy, six year-old grandson and future rock star, CJ. I want to write, but every time I try to open my laptop, best intentions are interrupted by bursts of joyous enthusiasm and requests for assistance with things that people with longer legs and billfolds take for granted, such as reaching for the box of candy on top of the cupboards or buying a sticker book filed with happy faces and zoo animals.

He was delivered to me via the belly of an American Airlines jet nearly six weeks ago, where J & B picked him up at LAX. I'm told he never stopped talking from the moment he hit the tarmac until they pulled in my driveway four hours hence. And also that his feet never stopped stinking having arrived sans socks in tennis shoes that were kicked off immediately, nearly asphyxiating both driver and passenger.

At 48 I can no longer imagine being mom to a small child 24/7 and yet after making  a greater and deeper  acquaintance with this beautiful boy, I can no longer imagine what life will be like minus his presence without feeling my heart bend at the center. Over the past several weeks I've learned a lot about being a small boy, things you forget even when it's only been a dozen years since your youngest was this age, like how fun it is to snuggle in the back of a station wagon at the Drive-In Theater with Grandma and Uncle J. That falling asleep comes easier after Dr. Seuss and a back scratch. That a Spiderman t-shirt goes with everything and Power Ranger slippers serve as street shoes until you wear holes in the bottom. That spinach is yucky but catsup goes with everything. That he will expend more energy in the first hour of his day than I have on reserve for half the week.

So far we have made several trips to the library, created pottery at Anam Cre', attended a Blues baseball game, got our faces painted at Farmer's Market, found out one of us can't swim (halfway down the slide) at the pool, built sand castles at the beach, played trains with 93 year-old G while I massaged his lovely bride, eaten frozen yogurt from Bali's, and dressed up like a rock star to head bang in honor of Aerosmith who is headlining at the Mid State Fair (no, we are NOT going). We've baked brownies, drawn daily bubble baths, attended the Renaissance Faire, ridden the go-karts at Boomers,  and occasionally played a video game or watched a movie when Grandma was too pooped keep her own rules.

As I write this, CJ sleeps next to me with a Pooh blanket over his head and clutching Chow, the stuffed puppy I sent to greet him at the airport in my stead. Normally he's awake by now, but last night we stayed up to howl at the full moon over the fence in the back yard. It won't be but a few minutes, however, before he untangles himself from super-hero dreams to begin humming, something he does every day, all day, often into the night.

It drives me a bit nuts at times, that constant nonsensical sound made just for the sake of its own noise. And yet I know come next Tuesday at 10:30 in the morning, the lack of his voice will feel like a missing limb. I plan to carry that tune back home with me, pull it out of my pocket and sing joy into the cracks of these lonely walls long after the fingerprints are wiped clean.