Kate: C’mere. I’ve got a secret.
Evan: A SECRET!?!?!
(trips over sock feet, runs to me squealing)
Kate: Hurry up, close close close.
Evan: YES?!?! WHAT IS IT?
Kate: (whispers in ear) Tonight, a lion will be born in Africa.
Evan: (gasps)

This age is manic, lows and highs, both him and my degree of tolerance. Early-morning cuddles, tub-tinkling, family dance parties. Hearing him talk to himself. Watching his face light up in delighted surprise. Swelling with pride at how he swaggers through the world with all the easy confidence of Ferris Bueller.

Flash-forward thirty seconds.

He talks back and yells defiantly BECAUSE I WANT TO! and escalates without warning from that to floor-flailing, spectacle-making. I am an unending stream of threats and bribes, bribes and threats, alternating like mixing dry and wet for crazy cake. A hundred times a day I transform from pied piper to shushing, snapping, scowling, growling battleaxe.

"BWAAA HA HA! Ben is AWAKE!"

And presto-bingo, dammit.

But then in the rearview mirror he grins, and I am high.

++++++

These days, I’m drawn to FLAT BELLY FAST! 447 WAYS TO LOOK GREAT – INSTANTLY! 60-SECOND TOTAL HEALTH FIXES! SEE HOW YOUR SEX LIFE STACKS UP! BELLY-BUSTER BLOWOUT! like a magpie.

Aware distantly that it’s all insidious old-skool magazine bullshit but overcome with "OMG, like, I can EAT my way to washboard abs? WHERE DO I SIGN UP?"

So I did.

"Any history of heart disease?"
"No."
"Diabetes?"
"No."
"Seizures?"
"No"
"Okay, we’re almost done. Can you tell me the last time you felt happy?"
(silence)
"I mean, when was the last time you felt content, and slept well, and didn’t have anxiety issues like breathing difficulties or mood swings?"
(laughs)

I joined a gym.

And when I did the incessantly perky girl at the front desk smiled kindly and asked, "And what would the family of squirrels that lives in the fold of your c-section scar prefer? Step aerobics or freeweights?"

I'm just hoping it will feel so decadent to have time to myself that the fact that it's exercise will go unnoticed by my brain.

See, I was born in the Chinese Year of the Banana Slug. Me and exercise? Oil and water. But driving Evan to playschool three times a week brings me halfway there. And they look after Ben. And there are classes and workshops and extremely motivating packs of snarling rottweilers personal trainers.

Even if it takes effort thanks to the declined metabolism and gravity of 34 years and three mostly-gestated children, I just want to walk tall again.

Progress so far—

1) Noted: you can’t breathe and suck in your pooch at the same time.

(to be continued...)

Two pregnancies have evaporated all the muscle tone and physical stamina I ever had (ha!), just in time for the kind of passable confidence that ten years of free skiing can produce.

So I cheat, slopping down the hill in what the telemark-half of Justin’s ski patrol crew used to scoffingly call ‘alpinmark’, or skipping the dropped knee in the interest of walking without grunting for the next week.

One of the lockers in the patrol hut at Cypress had a snarky bumper sticker on it that read TELEMARKING: IF IT WERE EASY, IT’D BE CALLED SNOWBOARDING and of course, naturally, someone had scratched out the last word so it read IF IT WERE EASY, IT’D BE CALLED SCOTT MAGLIO but the point remained: this purist form of skiing is akin to splitting ten cords of firewood with a spoon versus electric baseboards.

On this mountain I am an Amish buggy. I need an orange triangle pinned to my jacket that stands for ‘recent pregnancy’, or a sandwich board that says KEEP TWO HUNDRED FEET BACK or HONK IF YOU LOVE TWINSKIN or I BRAKE TO BREASTFEED.

But what the heck. It’s near-miraculous to have this kind of snow before Christmas. And we happen to be here in our beloved Sugarloaf, Maine with Justin’s indispensable parents, who just so happen to not mind being spat up on by our offspring.

+++++

HOW TO KIDNAP COERCE INTRODUCE A TODDLER TO SKIING

In hotel room, ask child calmly if he would like to don snowsuit, ski boots and skis. When child definitively says “No” ask again, pretending you could not care less.

When child says “But all my trains are right here. Why would I want to go outside where it’s cold and where there are NO TRAINS?”, request the assistance of ten conveniently earplugged sumo wresters.

Apply said snowsuit.

Once outside, offer a trial run without skis.

 
Pursue runaway child.

 
In the absence of a burlap sack, use brute force.

 
Extract smiles for camera with rhino tranquilizer and smartie bribery.

When passing state trooper flags you down at the child’s screams of “Put me down! You’re not my daddy!” increase speed.

 
Despite the inclusion of Spongebob Squarepants in this milestone moment, squeal with delight as child’s first pair of skis touch snow for the first time.

Disregard child’s nonchalance.

 
Note wife making obnoxious ass of self as she yell-sings ‘Let’s Have A Race’ from Episode #47 of Thomas the Tank Engine while running backwards and flapping arms.

Ensure your helmet is properly secured.

In the case of bunnyhill pileup, use child as soft landing.

 
Marvel that he likes it — no — loves it.

 
Fall over with equal parts pride and jello-legs.

Repeat every snowday for the next TEN YEARS.

People watch him, agape, as he flies past in a blur. It’s been this way all afternoon, the joie de vivre. Is he always this way? they say. He hasn’t even had any cake yet.

Unless he’s agro-energetic, which is rare, I let him run. Especially now. No harm beyond spectacle, beyond a few stiff-upper-lippers wondering when on earth I’m going to yank back on the leash.

But no, not today. Run boy run, all clammy scruff and foodie fingers. Burst up and down and hurl yourself at least once into every lap, begging MO MEAT PWEEEZE! and imping handfuls off of O.P.P. (other people’s plates) and batting eyelashes and, at the pinnacle of exasperation, saying I WUB YOU! and galumphing away, shoes on the wrong feet, and tripping spectacularly, landing in a tangle of limbs and giggles.

Having lost one son, the others will not be unhinged as though enough free rein for three has been dispersed among two.

But to see Evan so full of relentless charm, panting with exuberance… it’s like watching a horse you’ve got money on. I’m on my feet in the stands yelling Go! Go! Go! and as long as no harm is done and manners are loosely interpreted as best as a two-year-old can, I am his mama, mindful of more revelling and less propriety.

++++++++

People watch him, agape, as he murmurs on my chest curled up like a kitten. It’s been this way all afternoon: he nurses, he stretches, he farts, he sleeps. Is he always this way? they say. So small, so still.

Not for long, I think to myself, smiling. Not for long.

The first time it happened was at the Matt Mays show at the Shore Club in Hubbards. Defeaningly loud, but damn. Good, dirty stuff, ragged and authentic (I know, I've mentioned that night before. We don't get out much).

Ever been to a great show and gone all teen-bop on one particular band member (and instantly understood why musicians command such vast quantities of cho-cha)? That's what this was. But it wasn't Matt-magnetism, as cool as he is. It was his Number Two, the other guy on guitar and vocals and one-third of El Torpedo: Jarrett Murphy (so google tells me).

Here's what I should have been thinking:

Wow. He's hot. I'd buy him breakfast.

Instead, here's what I was thinking:

Wow. He's hot. I'd buy him breakfast. What if that was Evan, twenty years from now? I'd be so proud. I wonder if Evan will be that cool? I wonder if he'll still be scruffy? Not smelly-pothead scruffy. Irresistable scruffy. I wonder if he'll look that good in levi's? Will girls lust for him? I'll think they damn well should. Ahh, of course they will. But he'll be a gentleman (nice, but not too nice… ladies, you know what I mean). Imagine what a rush that would be to see my son up there on stage. I'd totally embarrass him. I'd be in the front row NO! No. No, I wouldn't. I'd sneak in the back and he'd never know I was there, watching him pull all kinds of rock star cho-cha.

His mother must be proud?!?? <forehead-slap>

Every few months, it happens again. Like yesterday: a random guy on the street. Always a little unkempt or fleecy, but in the way that you know he'd smell yummy up-close. He's somebody's son, I'll think. And it will make me smile.

Am I flooded with chick-heat? No. Vicarious mama-pride.

Yep, it's official: I am a female eunuch. And just so gosh-darned antsy to see what kind of person he turns out to be. I've got assumptions already. It can't be helped.

('Motorsport' enthusiasts and Clay Aiken fans, please skip ahead one paragraph)

Will Evan be a public nuisance on a two-stroke dirtbike? Hell no. Will he have a mountain bike? Hell yes. Will he enjoy Top 40 Radio in his pimped-out Pontiac Sunfire? Or will he listen to obscure bands (perhaps 20-year vintage El Torpedo) while he tinkers on a beloved truck? The latter. Will he be a powerboater or a sailor? That one's got to be obvious. Will he be generic, or will he have a spark in his eye? Spark. No doubt.

Yeah, I know. To imprint your own biases and expectations on your kids is to tempt disappointment. And it's silly, too. Like how I'd rather he play soccer than football. Why? Because. Most of the football guys I knew in high school were meatheads.

I'll let go when it's time. If you don't, you end up with kids who resent you (because they can plainly see that they didn't turn out the way you'd hoped).

I'll be filled-up with mama-pride no matter what. I'll watch him, thinking: he used to crawl under our duvet in the early-morning, order us to peel off his jammies, soft and naked, rattling off the names of all his trains and giggling, pointing at me, saying 'boo-beeees!' And I'll hardly believe it, that he is now the man who stands before me.

I'll just about burst.

Even if he does play football. <grimace>

Anyone else out there consumed with speculative identity-branding? What's yours going to be?

NO is multipurpose:

Put me down!
Pick me up!
Give me that.
Take this.
I see waves.
Take me over there.
Stay here.
Don’t move.
Move.

He scraped his finger and I licked it, a first instinct. His blood tasted like blood, that metallic tang. He’s filled with it, same as everyone else. How strange. I expected him to be made of blueberry juice.

+++

As the pee starts in the bath he looks down at the psssssss, shocked, then thrilled, seeing it come from his pizzle. Then he looks up at us with a wide grin as if to say, “Cool! Did you see that?” and plops into the brackish water in a fit of giggles.

+++

Going away is not so much worry and mother-guilt. He doesn’t need me in the literal sense: anyone can make grilled cheese and up-end a box of dinkies. Going away is missing my little buddy, jealous of the stories and cuddles and head-butts he'll give everyone else.

+++

During a nap I sneak in his room and stand over him, watch him tangled up with his teddy and his owl and his Walter the Farting Dog. He breathes and shifts, so sweet a sight that my head may well pop off and float away with joy. I love being there when he wakes, confused and piss-eyed (justin-ism translation: precious, tousled, not yet awake – a.k.a. ‘my eyes feel like two pissholes in the snow’). He wraps his monkey legs around my waist and rubs his face against my shoulder, wiping away the sleep and murmuring to me his dreams of pirates and deep-sea monsters and salty breezes, bracing and hair-whipping, his favourite.

+++

He is a polka-dot boy, a blackfly-feast. I swat and curse as they nuggle into his eyelashes, tuck in behind his ear, gather in swarms at the nape of his neck where the nectar beckons. Since he is unaware of the existence of bugs, he is completely oblivious. He sits in his paddling pool in the sunshine, babbling to himself, filling a bucket with rocks. The object of an insect maelstrom that would send Gandhi himself shrieking like a banshee for the indoors. Children focus unblinkingly on discovering delight, to the exclusion of all else. Teaching us fractious, glum-filled grown-ups that a state of zen in not reached through consciousness – but through a lack of it.

EVAN: they say
CAN YOU SAY MA MA?

(Muh muh muh muh)
And they clap

EVAN: they say
CAN YOU SAY DA DA?

(Gadiggy diggity diggity duh duh duh)
And they clap

EVAN: they say
WHERE IS DADDY’S NOSE?

And I show them
They never know

(Right THERE silly)
And they clap

Goodledee Goodledee Goodledee Goodledee
Guduh Guduh Guduh
Diggity diggah deediggity diggah
Deeedle deeedle gadeeedle
Goodledee Goodledee Goodledee
Aaaaahem
Gooteh deeesa gooosstee gooot
Tika tika tika tika
Ingledee diggity aaagggh!

(I got KNOCKED OVER by a DOGGY today and I landed in the water and I got all WET and salty and seaweedy and I cried but then I was okay but I was wet so mommy took off my shirt and then I was a BIG BOY because I was at the beach with a bare tummy and a DOGGY and I found ROCKS and some of them had CRITTERS in them and mommy called them periwinkles and I had three of them in my FIST but then we put them away so they would be HAPPY and I was SOOOOO MAD when we had to go but I had SAND in my BUM so we had to go home and I had a SHOWER and it was FUN and THAT’S ALL for now.)

Dinky dinky dinky
at least two or three
no matter where I gotta go
they gotta come with me

All busting out with joy
I chomp my love GRRRRAAAGHH!
But I’m still the favourite boy

I’m all flails and buckles
Mind heads and funny bones
My dinky brass knuckles
Make for ouches, yeowls and groans

Great-grammy thinks I need a barber. Daddy thinks I kick it like Bjorn. Voulez-vous?