Birth And Embarrassment

Another birthday. Another child a year older. This time it was my baby, Andre. Andre is no longer a baby, but a running, climbing, learning six year old.

Andre was born six weeks early. Not scary early. But early enough that the hospital called in our pediatrician (and friend) Toby, for the delivery. Everything went off without a hitch. Andre was born healthy and strong. But he was no looker. As his mother, I can say that. Honestly, the doctor warned us before he handed him to us. He was born with a bacterial infection of the skin (the reason he was early) and it made him look like he was broken out in pimples.

No worries though. After a round of antibiotics, it cleared right up. And he got a lot cuter too.

Back to him being born. As I said, our pediatrician was there for the delivery and to resuscitate him if needed (it wasn't needed). Let me say that it is not fun to be naked from the waist down in front of your child's pediatrician. I don't care if he is a doctor. He's not my doctor. During the delivery he was pretty busy getting an isolette set up in case Andre needed to be taken to the NICU (a very scary place that luckily we didn't need). But after Andre was stabilized he was walking freely around the room. I finally had enough and said, "Toby, if you don't stay north of my waist I'm going to go all post-partum on you right here and now." He thought this was funny and stayed up around my shoulders. My doctor however thought this was really funny and then told the whole room, "Hey, once you've seen one, you've seen them all."

I. Was. Mortified.

Matt is laughing. Toby the pediatrician is laughing. My doctor is laughing. The nurses are even chuckling a little bit. If I hadn't been in a compromising al-fresco situation I would have walked out of the room.

Six years later Toby and I laughed about this very situation at Andre's six year check up where he was pronounced perfect in every way. Here is Andre now.

He's got the biggest heart. He always has a kiss and a hug for you. He has the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen. He loves riding bikes, playing cars, swinging out back. He wanted books, Legos and puzzles for his birthday. He cried when I read him the card his Daddy sent him. He dried his eyes and said, "Even though Daddy can't be here this year, he'll be home next." Even at six he has faith that things will get better. He loves his friends. Here he is with his two best friends, Cassy-Wassy and Zackaroni and Cheese.



The night before his birthday when he was already in bed, it hit me that I would never, ever have a five year old again. Never. This was it. This was the last time we would have first day of kindergarten and first bike and all those other exciting things that happen at five. I started to cry. A lot. I couldn't believe it was going so fast. I needed to see him, hold him, kiss him one last time while he was still five. At 11:50 pm, I snuck into his room and crawled in his bed where he was fast asleep. I held him. I stroked his sleepy little head. I kissed his cheeks. I whispered all my hopes and dreams for his future in his perfect little five year old ear. And then I said good-bye to him.

The next morning when he tumbled out of bed I grabbed him and held him and kissed him for the first time as a six year old. I tickled his six year old tummy and nussled his six year old neck. I took a deep breath and sighed with relief. He is getting older and I will never get back those days that are gone. But isn't that what makes them so precious? Because they are so fleeting? That the perfection of childhood and youth are so impermanent?

Today he played soccer. For the first time as a six year old. And I have 364 days of six year old stuff left. It's going to be a good year.

Raw

This year for Christmas my son, Andre, asked for something that was a little different from the usual requests we get from our boys. We've done the Thomas the Tank Engine thing, the Lightning McQueen thing, Chevron Cars, and Star Wars toys. If it's out there and it falls under one of those brands, we've got it. That's why when Andre drew (he doesn't write well yet) his list I was a little surprised that it included the WWF Raw Wrestling Ring complete with realistic-action-punch action figures.

About three weeks before Christmas my kids were perusing the toy ads from all the local stores, circling their favorites, when Andre starting jumping up and down screaming that THIS IS WHAT HE WANTS!! I looked down in disbelief. This? Are you sure? Andre, where did you even see this? My disbelief then turned to disdain. I mean come on, wrestling? Professional wrestling with the masks and makeup and the idle threats of dismemberment? And that giant gold belt? One word. Yuck. (I apologize to any professional wrestlers or wrestler lovers in advance. You will not like this post.)

About two weeks before Christmas I had my kids list their wants in order of importance. The wrestling ring was always number one on Andre's list. I even dropped so low as to suggest if he only got one toy what would he want? The wrestling ring.

As you may have now guessed, I am personally not a fan of professional wrestling. Real wrestling, the kind done in high school where you wear protective head gear and there are real coaches and you can get scholarships for, go for it. But something happens to the sport of wrestling between that level and the professional level. Something not good.

One week before Christmas. We go to visit Santa. Andre sits on Santa's lap and is asked if he has been a good boy. 'Yes', Andre whispers. Then Santa proceeds to ask Andre what he wants for Christmas. 'Wrestling ring', Andre whispers again. Santa shoots me a quizzical look because he can barely understand him. 'A rustling wing?', Santa asks. 'No,' I answer. 'A wrestling ring. For toy wrestling guys to, you know, wrestle in?'. A gleam of understanding passes over Santa's face. 'Ahhh...wrestling ring. Well, Santa will have to make sure there is one under the tree Christmas morning'. That's just great. Thanks, Santa.

After the visit to Santa I realize that there is no way I'm going to get out of this. Why do I hate wrestling so much? I think it's trashy. I think it's cheap. I think it's fake. I think it's a bunch of muscle bound idiots hitting each other with folding chairs while wearing zipper masks. Not my cup of tea. 

I decide to suck it up and head to the store to purchase the great 'rustling wing'. As I walk down the crowded toy aisle I notice there is difference in the kind of children clustered around the wrestling toys rather than the educational aisle. In the educational aisle where there are toy microscopes and telescopes and books about science there are quiet children. Respectful children. These are the kind of children I want. In the wrestling aisle, it's complete chaos. Kids are taking the guys out of the packages and throwing them at each other while laughing hysterically. Parents are looking on, immune to the noise, while studying the backs of the action figures while I hear conversations like this. "This guy can punch with both arms. Johnny would like that more..." "Oh, there is no way I will buy this guy. He got the crap beat out of him at the last match..."  "Let's buy this guy. He looks scarier..."

At this point in the story you are probably thinking I am a snob. Or judgmental  Or that I have no right to decide what people who like professional wrestling are like. But let me ask you this. How many professional wrestlers have masters degrees? How many kids who like professional wrestling grow up to be surgeons? Hmmm? How many? Really. Because I have no idea. If you have this information please pass it on to me.

I pick up the wrestling ring from the shelf. Did I tell you that it has a button that when you press it it says a few choice phrases and real live sounds from the arena? You can practically smell the spandex and greasepaint. I select a few of the least scary and one-arm-punching guys to go with said wrestling ring and I head to the check out. The store is crowded. There are long lines. I feel like everyone has their eyes on me and my cart full of inappropriate wrestling toys. When I reach the cashier I place the toys face down on the conveyor belt. Why? I'm embarrassed. I can feel the man behind me with all his vegetables and books giving me the disapproving eye. Tsk, tsk, tsk he's thinking. I want to turn around. I want to say 'You don't understand! It's not for me! It's for a friend!' I feel like I'm buying cream that says for infectious lice or anal warts. The cashier scans my items. "Somebody likes wrestling!" She smiles at me. "Um, yeah. It's not me." I grab my packages and brisk walk out of the store.

Come Christmas Day it was the highlight of Andre's morning. He played with it all day. Well, mostly all day. That thing was a pain in the butt to put together. Where is Matt when I need him? I definitely think that assembling wrestling toys falls under the Daddy category.

So what does this all mean? Will Andre grow up and feel a need to put people in a headlock? Will he be drawn to wearing only shiny Speedos with knee high boots? And above all, will he have a mullet? I don't know. No one can see the future. But I'll tell you one thing. The second Andre starts scanning pay-per-view telling me that the match of the century is coming on, the wrestling toy is out the door.

Things I've Learned

Here is a list of things that I have learned this past November.

1. In five degree weather, no matter HOW MUCH ice melt you put down, ain't nuthin' gonna melt.

2. That I was really smart when two years ago I invested in waterproof, salt resistant, radiant heating, knee high snow boots.

3. That as long as I live in my neighborhood, I will want, no strike that, need to have a 4-wheel drive to access my own driveway.

4. That we will not be driving Matt's Saab until Spring

5. Or using the deck and patio furniture for that matter either.

6. That when you've been outside shoveling snow in a 15 degree blizzard, it takes approximately four times as long to warm up as it did to get cold.

7. That my street is the nexus of the weather universe where every storm that hits Utah converges and dumps twelve inches. Per storm.

8. That I never tire of watching my neighbors rev their Honda Civic back and forth trying to get unstuck.

9. That the guy down the street with the four-wheeler and attached plow is getting surprisingly more and more attractive every time he plows my driveway.

10. You should have a snow shovel for every person who lives in your home. You want to eat? You shovel.

11. Even when it stops snowing, that doesn't mean you're done shoveling. Ever heard of wind drifting snow? I'm talking 3-4 foot drifts. Against my back door. We were trapped!

12. And last, but certainly not least, that no matter how many times I tell my kids to keep track of their new gloves and hats, they lose them. Hence, Andre in a 10 year old bright orange hunters hat.