I jumped ahead a bit with March’s “tell your birth story” challenge, so I’ve already written all about Soccer Boy’s arrival in the world nine years ago today. But that story only captures the beginning–the beginning of a journey that made our family complete.
You see, I always knew I wanted three children. Adventure Guy, member of a two-child family, thought that a bit excessive. After all, it would forever complicate our being seated at restaurants. People often assume that we had a third child in an effort to “try for the boy.” When they talk to me, the phrase is, “So, I see you got the boy for your husband.” Believe it or not, people say this in front of the girls–you know, the ones who must not have been sufficient for us! But the reality is that Adventure Guy was quite happy with the two little girls who had him wrapped around their little fingers. Sure, a son was a great idea in the abstract, but the push (no pun intended) for the next child came squarely from me.
And each and every day of the last nine years, I’ve been thankful that we decided to add one more to the mix here in Suburbia. Soccer Boy brings a dimension to our home that we wouldn’t have without him. He lives through his imagination, bringing to life great adventures for his action figures who often wage epic battles on the staircase. He also loves writing stories, either in narrative or comic book form. In second grade, he and a friend developed their character, Super Worm, who avenged his way through several comic book editions. Recently, his masterpiece involved time travel and my favorite chapter heading ever, “Chapter 3: Defeat.”
Soccer Boy loves history, which warms the heart of this former U. S. History teacher. He’s the only one of my children who seems to have picked this up, and he has a wonderful memory for unusual historical facts. He loved his trip to Washington, D.C. this year with Adventure Guy. He particularly enjoyed the Lincoln Memorial and the Smithsonian and was a bit disappointed by the lack of a trip to Ford’s Theater, since he loves learning about Lincoln–even the details of the assassination.
If I could change anything, I’d make Soccer Boy just a little less critical of himself and the world around him. He’s his own worst critic, both on the sports field and in the classroom. I had to save his latest novel from destruction, and he often tells me he’s bad at the various sports he participates in. I know that I tend to choose not to do things I don’t excel in, so I’m trying hard to temper this a bit in Soccer Boy.
But what I find hardest to believe is that my baby, that cute little guy above in the soccer pajamas–foreshadowing maybe–is nine years old. It seems impossible. To date us even more, those are hot rollers he’s playing with from my bathroom. That’s a beauty step that doesn’t happen around here any more!
These days, Soccer Boy may or may not be willing to give his momma a hug, a kiss, or a cuddle. But I live for the moments that he lets his guard down a bit. And as I tell him, no matter how big he gets, he’ll always be my baby boy.