I haven’t seen him run that fast in quite some time. At a few minutes after 6AM today, my eldest son could be seen sprinting with near-Olympian speed over the half block from our house to the side street where he parks his car. He had patiently replied to my motherly interruptive questioning, as he was hurriedly tying his shoes before the mad dash, that having not wanted to set his alarm to the louder tone that he feared might wake up everyone else in the house, and having not gotten home from work till after midnight, he hadn’t heard the wake-up call when he should have. He was attempting to make it to the airport in time to catch a 6:40AM flight from Fort Wayne to Detroit, which would hopefully be followed by an air connection to a celebratory day and overnight in Chicago. (A call later in the morning confirmed he’d made it to Detroit and was waiting to catch the flight to Chicago. I guess it pays to be a fast runner.)
Twenty-four years ago today, February 19, 1984, that now fleet-footed son made his almost-as-rapid entry into our lives.
Never having done this giving birth thing before, and never having really given too much thought to the fact that things might not go exactly like the books or the prepared childbirth class had said they would, it took us awhile to determine that it was labor and not indigestion or a false alarm that was indeed upon us. Sparing you all the funny-today-but-nothing-to-laugh-about-at-the-time details, suffice it to say we made our own mad dash twenty-four years ago this morning. Arriving at the hospital around 8AM, our speedy efforts were rewarded by a much greater prize than successful airline connections: our 8-pound, red-headed little first-born boy named Gabriel–known most of his life as Gabe–was born at 8:29AM.
I used to be a little bit jealous when Michael would rank the first time he ever held Gabe as the highlight moment of his life, even rating the experience above our wedding day. However, I have been in the process of getting over that for the past twenty-four years and the culminating step to letting it go came when I held our little granddaughter for the first time back in October of last year and the recollection of those first moments of wonder came flooding back with full force. Now, I can’t blame him at all.
God bless all the first borns in the world who serve without any choice in the matter as guinea pigs in the laboratory known as parenthood. Today, in honor of Gabe’s birthday and his guineapighood, I choose to enumerate some of the things I’ve learned from the little boy grown to manhood:
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Red hair makes those morning hair “stick-ups” just that much cuter.
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The process of speech development in a little child is a wonder to behold.
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The knees of sweat pants, quickly worn thin through hours of Lego play on the floor, can be patched–and re-patched.
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Reading Cowboy Small or Whistle for Willie for the umpteenth time in a single sitting is a good use of time.
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As my Dove chocolate wrapper interior also reminded me today, “Listen with your heart.”
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We are not the potters to our children’s clay, only tools in the Potter’s hand.
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Sometimes, the most important things in school are not to be found within the scope of the three ‘R’s.
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A day without FUN is not any fun. An hour without FUN is not any fun. A minute without FUN is not any fun?
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Words are powerful.
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It’s not what you say–it’s how you say it. (This lesson has been reinforced to me by Gabe’s daddy.)
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People know if you love them unconditionally, no matter what you say.
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“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” (I guess Solomon said it first…)
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Welcome is often needed most when it is hardest to give. (Thank you, Karen Mains, for the words for that reality.)
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The answer to the FAQ of algebra class–”When am I EVER going to use this?”–is “You may not, but it is teaching you how to THINK.”
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God’s Word is powerful and mighty.
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Prayer changes things–prayer changes me.
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God can go with my children where I cannot.
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Action adventure films may have as much to say to the heart as chick flicks.
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Science fiction isn’t only for nerds or boys.
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You can have a five-hankie conversation with your hurting child, even if the conversation is happening online and that child is half a continent away.
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Sometimes, a mom needs to stop being the teacher and just listen and learn.
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My way is not always the best way–whether we’re talking about mowing the grass or figuring out life.
This is not an exhaustive list. But life with Gabe has been rich. I believe I can say that, as adults, we are friends, and that is pure gold.
And, friends need each other. Today was a day that began with great discomposure of heart (which had nothing to do with Gabe’s early morning hurry). I found myself thinking about a note written in a childish hand about twenty years ago on another day when some one or another of life’s burdens had made a young mother’s tears flow: “Take. Corij.” (“…Courage”, in case you haven’t been reading Fouryearoldese lately) “Don’t. Be. Afraid” When I located the note–almost panicking when I thought I was not going to find it in the place it has resided all these years; that would have been a huge loss to my heart–I found with it another note, this one written in the scribbled hand of a college freshman who noticed his mom’s car in the nearby church parking lot when he was on his way between dorm and class. The torn-out sheet of notebook paper, stuck under my windshield wiper that day, greeted me with, “Hi, Mom! Hope you’re having a great day! Love you! Gabe”
After reading those encouraging words from a tender heart, I was…and I am… and I hope you are too, Son.
(Son just called to say he arrived in Chicago, connected with his friends–”You don’t want to know how fast I drove or ran to make it this morning.” “No, I don’t,” says the mom. “I got there just as they were closing the plane door. But now I’m here.”)
Happy Birthday, Gabe. Love you, too.
