July 28, 2010
My youngest son is pregnant. Yes, you heard me right, and since he’s an overachiever like his parents, he happens to be having twin boys.
Guess what their names are.
My oldest son Justin has had a home program for a long time, and we’ve been fortunate enough not to have scared off most of his therapists even after several years of working with them. One of them, a lovely woman who’s capable of motivating my son in ways I never thought possible, is having a baby this December. Unlike me, who started showing five minutes after conception and looked like I was about to give birth by the beginning of the second trimester, she has finally sported her baby bump about five months into her pregnancy.
I try not to hate her.
Since my youngest is three and a boy, and therefore oblivious to almost anything around him that doesn’t directly affect his life, he hasn’t really noticed the “extra” Nicole has been carrying around with her. Yesterday however, I had to stop him from careening into the next generation as he ran over to show her the latest gift his sitter had spoiled him with recently. As he slid into my outstretched arms he looked at Nicole’s gently protruding tummy, stretched his gaze up to her face and asked quizzically, “What you have?”
Ah, the time-honored “what you have.”
“What you have” is universal for “mommy, you have wet hair, dry it”, “daddy, you are eating your lunch, I want it”, “Justin, I didn’t require that toy all day while you were at school, but I NEED it now”, and several other assorted commands. It also signifies a desire for knowledge, a request to satisfy the curiosity that runs rampant in this particular three-year-old, and I’m certain, in many others. When Nicole and I both respond with laughter at his query he repeats his request, and looks at me seriously, hands on hips, eyes locked intensely on mine. In other words, we’d better tell him “what she has”, or he may not be held responsible for his actions.
I look down at my sweet son and reply “Nicole has a baby in her stomach. When you were a baby, you were in my tummy too.”
Zach freezes, stares straight ahead as he attempts to process this information. I can literally see the wheels turning in his brain. I’m afraid if he tries to think any harder I’ll see smoke next.
He breaks his reverie, lifts up her maternity shirt and places his hand gently on her rounded belly, looks up at Nicole earnestly, and says “get it out”.
Oops honey, not yet.
Over the next few minutes he tries to climb back into my permanently “closed for business” womb, and searches everywhere for the fake baby I bought during my first pregnancy to try to convince his older sibling that the forthcoming interloper wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He then informs us he is having his own baby, two boys in fact, and tries unsuccessfully to shove said infant down his shirt, bottle and all (guess he’s not fond of breastfeeding either). Once he slips his child through his collar with a little help from his mom, he subsequently gives birth in a time-frame of which any peasant in a field would be envious. The baby’s name is Justin, and as we repeat the act, Zachary follows. He’s a pre-schooler after all, and his imagination is a wee bit limited. I comfort myself that at least my grandchildren aren’t named after signs of the zodiac, or fruit.
My friends warned me that having a kid who talks might not be all it’s cracked up to be, but I’ll take the defiance, the occasional tirade, the endless questions any day. It’s just so damn fun not to have to play “guess what he’s thinking” all the time, to not watch him be frustrated by his inability to communicate. Whether it’s dragons in the sky or babies in the belly, those words will always be music to my ears.
And now, a few years earlier than I expected, I have two grandsons. Guess I won’t get that girl after all.