The Prince at 4

Dear Eamon,

When you were a little baby, we used to call you "The Prince."  This title was in reference not only to the way I treated you, but to the way you seemed to expect to be treated.  We would swaddle you up and place you in our bed, head on a pillow.  You would look so regal and relaxed.  You were just the apple of my eye.  There is absolutely no comparison, as far as  photos taken, between you and any of your siblings.  I took more pictures of you than I could ever find uses for and I loved taking each and every one.  From your huge green eyes and bald head to your curly locks at 18 months, I couldn't resist just one more shot of my  prince.  

It is true that I don't call you "The Prince" much anymore.  You have outgrown that title and are more  commonly referred to as "Junior" or "Son".  Sometimes you are "Honey" or "Sweetheart."  Mostly, you are just "Eam."  The past year or so has been a bit tough.   We were faced with myriad fits, tantrums, yelling, hitting, and even biting.  Your self control has not caught up with your body size and that has made for a rough time.  I try to remember that you are often tired or keyed up, being a boy or having growing pains.  I try to remember that the girls and Trumie get the spot light and that you are the true middle child in this family dynamic.  I try to remember that you are sensitive and that you love your Mama so much.  I try to remember to be understanding.  

Just yesterday, Madeline commented that you have changed so much since turning four.  The fact is, I think she's right.  I don't  know if it's the fact that you are in school more, getting more sleep, getting more attention, or just growing up that is causing such an improvement in your behavior.  Sometimes I think that you take being 4 seriously.  That you think that you should behave better.  I think you think that you are now a big boy.  

I do know however, that you are so cute and so sweet and so in love with me.  You continue to be the apple of my eye and I will continue to try and understand when your behavior is less than stellar.  Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Four Year Old Boy.

Love,

Mama

Dear Sawyer

Dear Sawyer,

Happy Birthday!

I want to thank you for your awesome attempts at convincing me, the judge of our Apples to Apples game, to vote for your card last night.  Your powers of negotiation are in need of some work BUT, your skills at being cute are unmatched.  So I voted for you.  At 6, you are sweet, kind, smart, and fun.  You are friendly and girly and sparkly and you should probably have your own pony to hang glittery wreaths around while a rainbow shines overhead.  Yesterday, I bought you a bird whistle which is a little contraption that is shaped like a bird and holds water.  When you blow through it, it makes a sound similar to that of a bird call.  Upon arriving home with the whistle, you filled it with water and announced, "Mom, I'm going outside to talk to the birds."  You spent at least 15 minutes out there and were thrilled to announce that the birds were talking back to you.  You were further pleased that you  were able to translate the returning bird calls.  Dr. Doolittle has nothing on you.  Additionally, you claim to speak baby and are endlessly translating back and forth for  Truman and I.  Thank you for that, I'll take all the help I can get around here.  I am also impressed that you claim to speak Spanish and German.  It is no small feat for a 6-year-old WITHOUT bilingual parents to be such an accomplished master of languages.  I guess I don't really need to talk about how wonderful your imagination is  but,  I want to thank you for sharing it with Eamon.  As his most enjoyed playmate, he has learned a lot from you.  Imagination and languages are just 2 such treasures he has gleaned from his time with you.

Sawyer, you are the funny one, the cute one, and the one who can drive me absolutely crazy.  You don't give up on many of the campaigns you begin.  Especially if candy is involved in any way.  You make friends easier and more quickly than anyone else in this family.  Your birthday parties are out of control.  I love that you read, wear fake glasses, and make up stories.  I love that you are organized and put things away.  I love that you are mine.  I am proud as heck of ya and I wouldn't change you for anything.

I love you,
Mommy

A Mother's Legacy

I'm fairly certain that when my son reminisces about his childhood he will have fond memories. His life is enviable in various ways. He has his own room, enough Hotwheel cars to last a lifetime, and an endless stream of playmates at his disposal. He has a loving family, complete with two doting sisters and parents who are generally entertained by his every move. The one strange twist to these lovely memories will certainly be the fact that, when he imagines his mother's face, it will most certainly be with confusion. I can say with absolute certainty that Eamon will forever remember my face contorted into some look of disgust. I say this because I am constantly catching myself looking at him with a mixture of horror, awe, and disbelief.

Maybe it's because I had girls first. Maybe it's because I'm just a bad mom. Maybe it's because my son is a menace. I'm not quite sure. Maybe I should be more understanding when my son feels the need to finger paint with his barbecue sauce or use bar soap to write on the bathroom wall rather than wash his hands. Maybe I should be able to comprehend why my son believes that yogurt, pudding, and toothpaste are superior to shampoo. I guess I should be more reasonable about his need to throw EVERY item he comes into contact with, rather than setting it down nicely. Maybe I should reframe my ideas about little boys not being magnetic when it comes to dirt, grime, and sticky, unidentified substances. And, as far as reframing goes, maybe snot and old bits of toothpaste left behind on the sink are appropriate sources of nutrition. I guess I'm kind of a stickler when it comes to things like wearing seat belts, not driving a car when you're two years old, and leaving the house with clothes on. I suppose I should lighten up and just let my son play in my mini-van with my car keys for several hours of the day. Maybe he is old enough to walk out the front door by himself naked and dig in the dirt while talking about his penis to anyone who happens by.

Because of his constant need to touch, break, disobey, and be involved in any number of unacceptable situations, I am constantly thinking, "what a dummy" when I look at my son. I try my best to keep it to barely above a whisper but sometimes I say it out loud and although name-calling is not a condoned activity in the DeWitt household, I almost can't help it. I can't believe the things this kid gets into. It is truly comical. His sisters call him a "cotton-headed ninny muggins" and I can't argue with them. It is quite possible that Eamon's memories of his sisters faces will be similar to his experience of my own- a little bit of pride, a little bit of disgust, and a ton of love.

On Being Relatively Average

Today as I drove to drop Sawyer off at preschool, I was listening to NPR. Alice Walker was the guest on whatever talk show filled my ears for my 15 minute drive. She is, of course, the author of "The Color Purple" and various other inspiring novels on race and gender. Interestingly, she was not speaking of her novels but of her love of raising chickens. Yes, this accomplished Pulitzer Prize winning author was talking about her absolute love of chicken-raising. She eats and gathers their eggs. Many of you know that I have an obsession with healthy eating (and with junk food to balance things out) so I was interested in this discussion; dreaming of the day when I might raise my own chickens, should I have the space and time. During this discussion, fans were calling into the show to thank Alice for the inspiration she has provided to them throughout their lives. She had clearly touched these people in many ways and they were obviously familiar with more than just her one award-winning novel and the subsequent movie.

As I listened to these callers, in all of their hero-worship, I started to think about my existence and the impact it will have. Certainly it is nothing like that of Alice Walker. I have no interest in fame. I will likely never have wide-spread impact on the world at large. Now, before you start assuming that I'm looking for some kind of validation that my existence is important, let me continue. I am a stay at home mom. When people ask me if I plan to return to work when my children are in school full-time, I'm never sure what to say. Frankly, I don't want to return to social work. I don't really feel that I have the power to change the world and my heart is not truly in the practice. Maybe I'm just lazy. I just don't have the kind of ambition necessary to really do something. That is not to say that I don't want to help this world become a better place or that I lack interest in activities in general. Quite the opposite is true. I like everything. I have just come to the realization that in general, my existence is relatively average. I have some guilt about this fact. I feel like I should be making money or changing lives or writing the great American novel. Instead, I try to read interesting books, volunteer when I can, and cook meals for my family. I would like to garden, quilt, and sew. These average acts are not going to gain any notoriety for me. So be it. Some might say I set the bar pretty low for myself. Ok.