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Brendan, my first-born, arrived on father’s Day – an
appropriate gift. He was a tiny, pink, frowning replica of his father. His head
was covered with a thatch of golden curls and his blue eyes had the intensity
of a summer sky. He would gaze at me so long and questioningly as he nursed
that I would have to look away or cry. I loved him wildly. I still do.
He was an inquisitive child, and a happy one until the first
day of school. I opened the front door at mid-morning to find him crying on the
doorstep. He had walked the mile home from school at recess. His teacher called
in a panic when she couldn’t find him. As I walked him back to school, he
solemnly explained to me, “Six hours is far too long for a child my age to be away from his mother.”
No kidding.
When he was seven, I put him on the bus to Boston with a
chum from school. They were going to visit the friend’s grandfather and Bren
was beside himself with excitement. I was beside myself with worry. In his
suitcase I packed Sammy Sock, his favorite toy, thinking that it would help him
be less homesick if he had something familiar with him. When he came home two
days later, he confided that he had been having a wonderful time until he
opened his suitcase to get his pajamas. Seeing Sammy made him so homesick he
couldn’t sleep. It was an important lesson – never presume your child feels the
way you do.
As Bren grew, he seemed to stretch. Always thin, he soon
towered over me like a young sapling. I remember a day I was scolding him over
some trivial thing. He looked down fondly on my upturned frown and said, “What
did you say, Shorty?”
Incensed, I dragged a chair over and stood on it, forcing
him to look up at me. The absurdity of it struck us both at the same time and
we collapsed in a giggling heap.
My second son was born a year and a day after his brother.
For the first two days of his lfe he was known as Baby because his dad and I
couldn’t agree on a name. Finally in desperation I began reading aloud from
What to Name Your Baby. When I got to Kenneth, I looked down at baby. He looked
back and gave me a ghost of a smile. I didn’t care what we called him as long
as I got to keep him. I loved him wildly. I still do.
Ken was a rugged little boy with a mop of yellow curls and a
mischievous grin. He liked to move fast and climb high. When he was two I went
into the kitchen one morning to find him sitting Buddha-like on top of the
refrigerator. When he was five, a neighbor called in a dither because she’d
seen him climbing among the branches of a huge pine in her front yard. I
strolled over to fetch him.
“Hi Mom,” he called from his hiding place twenty feet up.
When he was old enough to get his driver’s license his
standard excuse for a speeding ticket was, “But my car just goes too fast.”
Jennifer was born two months after Ken’s first birthday. Her
hair was as soft as swan’s down, her eyes the color of violets. Her brothers
adored her. I loved her wildly. I still do.
She was enchanting – a butterfly child who sang to herself
every morning while waiting to be lifted from her crib. One Christmas, my
mother came to spend the holiday with us. She brought a miniature Christmas
tree trimmed with blinking lights for the kids’ room. Before going to bed she
plugged the cord into the socket. She woke to find Jennifer sitting on the foot
of her bed, watching the lights blink on and off, on and off. “Isn’t it pretty, isn’t it nice?” piped Jen.
We still say that when entranced by some unexpected beauty.
Jen loved being center stage. “Watch me dance!” she cried at age seven., pirouetting around the
dance studio. “Watch me twirl!” she sang at twelve, throwing her baton high in
the air. “Watch me do cartwheels!” she yelled from center field during half
time. “Hear me sing!” she crooned, standing in from of a microphone at her high
school graduation. Where did this extrovert come from, I wondered.
Cassie, the caboose baby, was as sturdy as Jen was elfin.
She had the same golden hair and wide blue eyes as her siblings, and a deep,
throaty chuckle. The day she was born, my father stood over her examining her
fingers and toes. “Look,” he said, “at her perfect little fingernails, her
perfect little feet. Every time, it’s a miracle.” I loved her wildly. I still
do.
“Don’t see me Mommy,” was her favorite admonition growing up.
She was an intensely private and self-reliant child. “Born old,” people said of
her and it was true. She seemed to possess some ancient wisdom that gave her an
enviable self-assurance. When she was thirteen, I put her on an airplane flight
from Vermont to California where she was to meet my sister. From there they
would fly down under, spending the summer backpacking through Australia and New
Zealand. I got dizzy every time I imagined the soles of her feet meeting mine
from the other side of the earth. “Dear Mom,” one bloodstained letter began. “I
can write now that my cuts are almost healed…” Of the two of us, she was (and
is) the one with admirable aplomb.
Because of them my life is enriched beyond measure. I loved
them wildly. I still do.
