Today is my son, Christopher's forty-third birthday. That's right, my no-longer-a-baby is now a middle aged man. He is a son, brother, nephew, grandson, cousin, husband, father and most recently a grandfather. At lunch he shared the latest pics of his granddaughter and gushed, "She's the cutest isn't she?" I smiled and agreed ,pointing out maybe as cute as his own two daughters. He shook his head, grinned and replied, "Nope, cuter." I tease, "Of course, she is! Ain't no ugly babies in this family." I couldn't help but feel a flutter in my chest. This is why I kept him alive all those years ago. This is the whole life is a glorious circle thing. What goes around does indeed return two-fold. Creating and nurturing a family pays dividends in spades. Where is that mystery infant that kept us waiting and wondering well past his official due date? During his one and only in utero scan he coyly chose to cross his legs and protect his gender-identifying characteristic. He obviously did not wish to share a birthday with me, his Number One supporter. We do share June though. His perseverance, or stubborness could not buy him a completely different birth month. I can smile now that his hurried birth is safely tucked away in memory. He had no need for warnings, subtle or otherwise. There was no labour and then, bam, hard labour lasting exactly forty-five minutes. He so graciously allowed the speeding drive to the hospital before making his appearance. That would be his one and only display of speed. He could never be hurried. While the rest of us were dressed, shod and outside in the car, Chris would be inside the entrance pulling up his socks so that they were unwrinkled and aligned. Satisfied with those efforts he would then repeat this with his shoe laces before tying them in mirror bows. Inevitably, he would need to return to the house for his cap, the cap that he would then misplace during our outing. Being the last one to enter the vehicle did present its own dangers. By the time of his appearance, he had to concede no choice of seating. Window seat? Unlikely. While forced to crawl in and occupy the middle seat, his younger sister would often slam the door on his hand still clenching the top of the door frame. Ah, memories. That little boy that screamed bloody murder from under the deck until we dispatched the teeny, tiny terror swinging from the wisp of a web-string stuck to the brim of his baseball hat still shudders at the sight of spiders. Just his luck to be the designated spider-remover as needed by the females in his household. What began as his eagle-eyed observation of expired licence plate registration tags and his recognition of every vehicle symbol at the age of three led him to a career in vehicle restoration. I still find this somewhat odd because he has never liked to have dirty hands. Apparently, the constant dust and paint stains are bearable...now. Compared to his sisters, Chris has always been a watcher, a listener. His teachers would report that somehow he could be involved in classroom shenanigans, sometimes even an instigator, yet correctly answer when called upon with a question re the lesson. Was this a survival mechanism for a boy forever in the middle of two strong-willed sisters? If I have one regret as Christopher's mother it would be that he has inherited my propensity for accidents. Alas, he and I qualify as real life models for every scenario presented in a first aid manual. Well, make that most scenarios. So far we have managed to avoid the heart attack or stroke episodes. Careening bicycle accidents? Check. Car wrecks? Check. Falls? Yep. Fractures? Groan, yes. Stitches? Ouch, yep. Burns? Sure, why not those, too. Orthopedic surgeries? Sigh, mais oui. Is there such a thing as a klutz gene? If so, we have it. So, to recap. My favourite son, Christopher, is now a middle-aged grandfather. This is why I like the month of June. We birthday buddies have survived to enjoy becoming grandparents. Going in circles is a grand thing. 700 words Attention StephBee  and Ẃeβ࿚Ẃỉtcĥ  "The Bard's Hall Contest"  |
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