Dear Liam,
There's nothing special marked by the calendar today but after playing audience to your pseudo-impromptu, "western" harmonica recital and hearing from grandma your response to her question about whether your mom was planning to take you to get your hair cut soon (which was "I don't know. She never tells me anything."), I can't let another day pass without telling you how much you rock my world.
First, the recital. We were cleaning up your room when you uncovered the harmonica. Most kids would pick it up, play a few notes and move on, but to you the harmonica sighting signals something more, an event perhaps, one that requires pomp and circumstance. So you ransack the closet and come out dressed in wool slacks, a belt fastened (God knows how) in the back, a button-up shirt, your ring-bearer vest, a clip-on dinosaur tie and an old dented cowboy hat. It reminds me of how you changed your clothes recently before leaving for our friend's farm on a hot and humid Saturday - to a white long-sleeved button-up shirt and jeans. It was as if you we're playing the role of the local Amish boy. And although a small part of me worries what people think and hates to imagine what the closet looks like, the larger part loves how you put your crazy outfits together and couldn't care a hoot whether you're on par with the sad-looking kids in the Gap ads.
Then there's the comment. Where do you come up with these things? Maybe from dad? I can imagine he has said that to at least one person at least one time (that is, "She never tells me anything."). But the comments about my age need to stop. I have heard you on more than one occasion refer to me as old. I mean, come on? How many other (old) moms race their kids down the waterslides at the pool? Or give their four year old and his scooter a piggy back ride across town because he's too thirsty to go on? Or shake some serious booty to some seriously ridiculous music? Okay, so maybe I am a fan of the "old fashioned" toys, like that box of Legos we found at a garage sale this summer that you absolutely did not want because you preferred the jumprope with the Mickey Mouse hand handles that is now knotted into oblivion around a tree but you pull out the box of old Legos every day and when your new preschool teacher asked you today what you like to do, you said "Legos." I'd say you may need to rethink your ageism.
Sometimes, I admit, I prefer to sit and watch, like an old person, I guess. At the pool, for instance. Seeing you fearless, diving and swimming and taking that long, dark tube slide into the deep end, over and over again, I want to stand up and shout and point and cry, "That's my boy! He's just four and he used to stand in the water on his tip toes, with his arms waving in the air and a panicked expression that said, 'I'm going to die in this pool of acid.' And now he barely remembers to surface and breathe." You are so brave, Liam. And your dad and I are so proud.
In fact, like your brother to whom you really are the greatest, we can hardly bear having you out of our sight. The last couple weeks we let you stay up most nights to watch the Olympics with us. We made a little nest for you on the family room floor and let you fall asleep there. The Olympics are over but tonight we let you linger downstairs until you passed out on your blanket on the floor. Well, your dad did. I sighed and said, "We have to stop doing this." You really need to go to sleep in your bed. But, the truth is, whenever we let you stay up late, it's just so we can gaze at you when you're finally sleeping. Thanks for indulging us. Cause nothing's sweeter.
Love, Mama
p.s. If you're looking for a glimpse of the harmonica recital, I caught a few seconds on camera. You'll have to rotate your head sideways because I couldn't figure out how to rotate the video. I could have used your help with that, but you were sleeping.
