| Posted in:Family
Like most of his gender, my five year old son is a simple creature.
He says what he means, does what he wants, and really, all he wants is for me to make him a salami and tomato sandwich and then leave him alone. He is smart, inventive and curious. I have seen him display unlimited patience when building a Bakugan Lego Thunderdome from plastic berry baskets and packing tape, yet he can blow up like an egg in the microwave if both of his legs go through one hole of his underwear.
He will likely end up being some sort of explosives engineer. Or a felon. Jury’s still out.
He appreciates and responds well to a streamlined schedule: Eat, sleep, play, destroy, aggravate, enchant, repeat.
He knows what he likes, knows what he doesn’t and couldn’t care less if your view differs. He can be difficult, bewitching, charming, offer stinging criticism, appear emotionally detached and be overtly affectionate. At the same time. I have no idea where he gets it from.
He loves to wear costumes, do wheelies on his two wheel bike and steal my kitchen utensils. Today on his daily bike ride he wore his glow in the dark skeleton costume, a flame-stickered bike helmet, and carried both a lime reamer and a garlic press in his pocket. The garlic press had been missing for days, and was later returned to the drawer without comment, but smelled oddly of garden soil and worm intestine.
He tells me he loves me and that I am his “best friend” countless times every day, and loves it when I read to him from my history textbook. That boy knows more about the Russian Revolution, The Grand Exchange, or the King’s Great Matter than many of my classmates. Especially that weird guy who wears his pajamas and a floor length black oilcloth duster to class.
When it comes to his wardrobe, I’ve stopped offering explanations as to his appearance. Luckily, his teachers are kind and understanding, and find it “charming” that he wants to wear his John Deere T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants and assorted bits of various costumes from Halloween’s past 5 days a week. My daughter needs a different pair of jeans for every day of the month. My son needs two pairs of pants, total. He’d be happy with one, but by bribing him with orange Tic Tacs I was able to get him to agree to an extra pair for when the first are crusted with pancake syrup, play dough and hamster poop.
I was hoping that Santa would deliver some new clothes for him at Christmas, but so far his only request is “a long, really sharp stick with some kind of propeller thingy on the end to chop stuff up.”
I am asking Santa for a military grade triage first aid kid and a cask of tequila.
They say that there is a special place in heaven for mothers of sons.
The vast majority of days, I love earning my wings.