He's my third-born child, my second-born son, my youngest…my baby boy.
When he was born he was blue from crown to sole, and, delirious I declared, "He's a Smurf!" Today he's nothing but bronze and outdoors.
His love language is touch and when he was younger that looked much different than it does at 16. Now, presence means what sitting in your lap did when he was four.
He also has this compulsive Need To Know, a thousand questions, maybe more. When I say I don't know he'll ask again another way, thinking he's tricked me into suddenly knowing. Undaunted, persistant, determined, he'll keep asking until my voice shrills, usually by the third iteration.
He's six feet of cheer and he can't stay mad, even when he tries. With a big brother who's used him as a punching bag since birth, he has good reason to try, but that usually lasts all of five minutes and then happy-go-lucky returns. He just can't help himself.
I think that's a glorious Super Power.
* * *
For three weeks he's 8,500 miles from home and my house has grown a little dimmer.
Part of that time he'll be an adventurer, an explorer, a discoverer; most of the time he'll be a server, a lover of people, a giver. All of the time he'll be a Light Bringer and a World Changer–it's both his nature and the reason he's there.
My heart is beating somewhere in South Africa, winding the trails of Cape Town, then venturing to a small town to cross culture…and eventually to bring the culture the Cross.
I knew before he left we wouldn't be talking often; that despite the wondrous technology available to modern world travelers, calling home isn't his priority and accessibility is limited. I set my expectation low.
He leaves on Monday night and chases daylight. At 2:45 am on Tuesday, I wake up and reach for my phone, squinting though sleepy eyes at the tiny screen to track his flight. He's 30,000 feet above the ocean–has been for hours and will be for more. When I wake up, I check again and I finally exhale when I see they've landed around 11:00.
Flight time might say 15 hours, but it ticks slower than molaseas when it's your baby up there without you.
I get a text that tells me they're there but it's his father who gets that first call. I carried the boy for nine months INSIDE MY BODY and even if I birthed him as a Smurf, HE CALLS MY HUSBAND FIRST? I exhale again and let that one go.
The next day I'm running errands, the in-and-out kind that take no time and yet all day. It's after leaving the post office I notice three missed calls on my phone. An odd phone number I didn't recognize until it hits me IT'S OUR SKYPE NUMBER AND I JUST MISSED MY BABY!
The thing with a Skype number is whatever shows up on your phone isn't the actual number assigned to you. To make a long, confusing story short, my iPhone still has a German SIM card; I only use it when I have wifi but it's the phone I have Skype on. I'm 15 minutes from home and I know it's LATE where he is and he won't be up much longer–I don't want wifi, I NEED it.
And then it hits me. I have wifi.
I'm still demo-ing my , and from it I can open a mobile hotspot. So, OF COURSE, I open a mobile hotspot and log in to Skype. I'm able to talk to my son who's 8,500 miles from home. In that moment no one could convince me Verizon didn't hang Jupiter and Mars and I resist the urge to kiss my phone.
* * *
The next time he calls, he crowns me in glory:
"Hey, mom, I almost forgot, I saw a rainbow today–"
He was the one who discovered the spectacular, miraculous baby rainbow in our front yard and he knows I thrill to their sight. I imagine he must've seen the most beautiful rainbow ever, for him to remember to tell me.
Then the ungrateful mongrel decides to slay his mother…
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"…it reminded me of you."
Stick a fork in me.
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p.s. He's proud to represent the good ol' US of A by sporting his 'mericas Chubbies Shorts–he's hoping they notice the effort. For fun, click the link and you'll find one of the funnest (most unexpected for parents over 40) fashion trends among the teen/college set!
Cape Town? My home town! Where I was born, grew up, married and gave birth to my 3 children. One of the most beautiful places on earth! Oh wow, Robin, what a wonderful opportunity for him. And this, my friend, is one beautiful post.
Goodness, I love this post. Rainbows remind him of his mom. He’s a good boy. I hope the company recognizes his efforts. 😉
(My grandmama used to always say my Uncle Ronnie was “as blue as a huckleberry” when he was born. You made me think of that for the first time in years.)
You made me weep. I have four grown sons. I keep a tattered handwritten, sweet and encouraging letter my youngest wrote me in 2009 at age 22 (left it on my visor in my car) just prior to interviewing for a tough promotion at work. And, oh, if you read it, you would weep too. I connected with this entire blog so deeply, but particularly the very last lines. Genuine beauty in words. And in your pure and unadulterated love for that sweet “baby”. Thank you.
Glorious! Thanks for sharing this gorgeousness and soul-saturated sweetness with us… with me, who is on the cusp of these same season. Bless ya!
Something is so odd, Linds; I promise I replied to your comment the other day (grumble, grumble at TP). Thank you for your kind words about the post :). AND…I wish I were with my son! Especially when I hear comments like yours fromhaving lived there. If you have insider info (a few things he should try to do), he’ll have a few days after his mission trip to explore. My email is pensieve.me@gmail if you think of anything :).
Southern Gal,
🙂 I love that my post made you think about a fond memory, makes me smile.
(and THANK YOU for your comment about the post; that made me smile, too. Two points for you!!)
Laura, I absolutely understand about keeping love notes like that; they’re such treasure, aren’t they?
This was one of those essays I delighted in writing; deeeelighted. I don’t know if Stephen will ever read it, but he knows my affections. I don’t keep it a secret.
You’ve piled encouragement on this morning, a lovely way to begin my week. Thank you.
Well, Lorretta, your comment DID bless me :). “Soul-saturated sweetness”….I’ll savor that one.
I read this and cried as my first-born (and only son) is about to embark on a trip to Europe next week. How will I put my baby on a plane without me? He thinks I’m a crazy old lady and can’t understand my worry. He’s at that age where he is shrugging me off at every turn and telling me that no, he won’t die if he drives to Raleigh, or stays out until 1:30 in the morning (he’s 17!) and that he’s got it all covered. But this mama will be a ball of worry until he lands back home 19 days later. And I hope he catches my bug to see the world and learns that it is hard to hate people on the other side of the world once you meet them. But it sure is hard to let them go, isn’t it?