My Boy of Summer...an update in pictures

May 3, 2015

Eleven years ago my daughter was two.  Time was ticking by, but I wasn’t sure if there was enough of me to go around as it was, let alone with another little cherub to love.  The nagging (and somewhat cliched) fear that I could never love another child as much or that the newbie would pale in comparison to the amazing Grace was also alive and well.  But I knew there was a patch of my heart that would surely run dry without another wee one to crawl in and make it whole.

Ten years ago we got our answer in a little guy we named Drew.  The world got a fellow whose heart is bigger than most:  he is uniquely sensitive and has an acute radar for anything that is even a tad amiss in those he loves. As a baby he was mostly fuss-free, which was an absolute thumbs-up from God to me and visa versa.  Babies terrify me, quite frankly.  Their volatility and inability to reason is scary.  I considered Grace a walking time bomb back in the day even though she was really a cinch, in retrospect.  While I’d weathered the minefield of the potentially explosive infant the first time around, I never underestimated any child in my care:  at any moment anywhere, things can go horribly wrong.  And when they do…oh…sweet Jesus...

But Drew was always along for the ride.  No big deal.  When he was two months old, I had to travel to the national debate tournament in Philadelphia for a week with nearly a dozen of my top debaters.  As the week approached I became more convinced that one of us (actually, just me) would crumble under the weight of a week’s separation.  My hormonal and heartfelt emotional spasms resulted in my husband flying Drew to me in Philly mid-week.  Darin was there for less than 24 hours:  he graciously delivered my prize, kindly participated in an evening of debate coaching tasks, and returned home.  I rejoiced in my low-maintenance 2-monther and a 15-passenger van full of teenagers.  Where I went, so did Drew.  I have a picture of the two of us atop the “Rocky” steps one afternoon.  He is wearing a blue hat and is oblivious to our famous surroundings and happily snuggled up against me.  Later that day he stayed with one of my school kiddos in the balcony of the theatre housing the awards ceremony.  Two of my students had placed 3rd in the nation and I needed to be with them on the floor of the auditorium.  I kept looking up at Sam, bracing myself for Drew to finally rebel and cry with me powerless and away from him.  He did no such thing. He snoozed.

Drew has continued the trend of being a low-maintenance champ ever since that smooth trip to Philly.  He has also continued the trend of being my faithful companion.  He’s my guy.  When he stood no taller than our mattress, he would toddle into the bedroom with his shock of bright-blonde hair and climb in.  I remember holding my breath sometimes, wanting to freeze the look of him bounding in to be with his mama.  I hold on now to every shard of attention and need.  It is just the absolute best to be loved by him.  I’m self-deprecating about a lot—but not about how much he loves me.  It’s a powerful force, the bond between a son and his mother.

These days this mother is a spectator to the life Drew eats, drinks, and sleeps:  baseball.  He plays competitive, traveling baseball.  He loves sports more than anyone I have ever met…except for my father.  Drew and his Papa are birds of a feather, breathing in ESPN and and exhaling the latest on the St. Louis Cardinals.  As a very young little boy, Drew would watch Sports Center with his breakfast and could digest the crawler of scores at the bottom of the screen well before he was literate.  In fact, his understanding of scores and statistics littering any sportscast was deceptive.  He would sometimes have to be clear:  “now, you know I can’t read,” he explained. Eh, no big deal.  That would come later.

Now I watch Drew play the game to which he is wholly devoted:  he pitches, plays first base, plays outfield.  We returned just today from a tournament in Arkansas.  My fellow moms and I are watching these boys of summer morph into young men before our eyes, though none of us dares say it.  On the mound, on base, behind home, they are so very adult:  committed to a craft and its rules, they are tough and serious.  But I know that before the warm-ups and after the post-game sermon from the beloved coach, my boy and his cronies will be the silly little farting and laughing darlings God intended them to be at 10.  The differences on and off the field are fascinating. 

Some people hear our schedule of games think us crazy to be so committed to so much this early.  But he loves it.  He craves it.  

I love baseball because of what it means to people I love.  The sport itself I have found painstakingly slow and snoozy for much of my life.  My father was an incredibly successful collegiate coach when I was young, but I was more concerned about how many pieces of bubble gum I could cram into my 8-year-old mouth than the strikes and balls being thrown.  Dad refers to the shenanigans of my brother and me at the ballpark during that era as a perpetual game of “grabass” while we threw dirt bombs at each other.  My son, however, doesn’t even like to bring friends to watch games with him because he doesn’t want to risk being distracted by some bit of ridiculous conversation.  I’ve learned to love a game I barely understand because, well, how can you not love something that makes that face light up?

This is a belated happy birthday message to my glorious little boy.  My Drewdlebug.  He may read it someday and roll his eyes and possibly get a little ticked at this last bit.  You see, he still climbs in bed with me before bedtime or sometimes first thing in the morning.  And if no one is watching, he lets me give him a smooch.  And I still hold my breath.