Adventures in Meeting Matthew

We drove all the way to Spokane to meet our new baby nephew, Matthew.

He's an absolute blessing to our family, so sweet and handsome!  He's long and skinny, with sharp eyes and has a proud Aztec profile.  He reminds me of my own AJ when he was that age and it moved me to nostalgia to hold him.  We've waited a long time to meet this little man.  His mommy was my friend nearly 18 years ago when I was a senior in high school.  She introduced me to her big brother, whom became my best friend and soul mate, my wonderful husband and father of my children.  It took her a little longer to meet her Mr. Right, but the wait was worth it for he's a wonderful man.  Their dream of finally becoming parents was realized when they held their first born child in their arms two months ago.  It warmed my heart to see them as parents, so natural and easy going.  Matthew is immensely blessed to have them as parents.  My boys would pause in their play to show genuine interest in their new cousin, staring at him, caressing him tenderly with their fingertips before running off again.  It was precious.

We couldn't afford time off with Aaron's work and school schedules, so we drove the 700 miles in less than 36 hours.  We stopped at the midway point to stay the night at my Grandpa's 20 acre cattle farm, where we camped in my dad's trailer on the lawn.  The boys thought it was a real adventure!

AJ reading his favorite Calvin and Hobbes book, R looking dapper in the back seat.

Having our PB and jelly picnic at the Sprague Lake rest area outside of Ritzville.  The boys were elated to have juice boxes, a treat I reserve only for long car trips.  The vegan jello from Trader Joe's not such a hit.  

They both fell in love with the farm.  AJ was elated to see "real cows," exclaiming as he pointed to them, "Look!  They have hooves!  Real hooves!"  I never thought I'd have city kids.  I was riding horses as soon as I could sit on a saddle (Click here to read"Bucephalus").  Of the nearly 8 tractors and various farm equipment and machinery parked about the farm yard, AJ climbed up each one to feign driving it.  R was so happy to be out of the car, he set about right away to play in the dirt, starting out at first driving his cars in it, and swimming it, dowsing his hair and clothing with it.  I smiled at the sight of him.

My grandpa is really the last surviving cowboy.  He's raised beef as long as I can remember.  I grew up in this cattle farming family, witnessing cow births, branding, butchering, selling, buying, hauling and driving (that is to mean "cattle drive" them in a herd from one graze land to another via cowboys on horses with a gangle of border collies to nip the ankles of wanderlings).  He chews and spits tobacco into old bean cans littered around his house,  poor-man spittoons.  He used to break his own horses, train his own dogs, grow his own hay, repair his own tractors, lay his own fences, and any old thing that needed doing, he just did it.  He had his face kicked in by a horse when he was a young man, and the scar remains on his mouth like a hairlip, while other scars are less visible, but still there.  I mean he's a real cowboy.  The breed of such men is fading into history.

Grandpa's diagnosis of cancer was a shock.  He was old, mean, and tough.  He could beat the living tar out of a bad-attitude colt or dog (not that I personally condone that treatment of animals, but I've grown soft in the city life, and have to remember on a farm an animal is not a pet, it's a commodity), he could do the same to this disease.

His kitchen cabinet is plastered with pics of AJ when he was a baby.  They've been there for years, curling at the corners, fading under the scotch tape that holds them there.  His eyes sparkle something devilish when he sees my boys, his great grandsons.  He seems to grow younger right before my eyes, and a smile tugs at his mouth as he watches them.

So I guess it shouldn't be a surprise to see my boys finding a slice of heaven on a real cow farm.  It's in their blood.

R was delirious with the farm and all it's wonders.  

Look closely.  It's really the Millennium Falcon.

He felt so proud, like such a big boy!

All kinds of amazing machines on the farm!

Papa and his big boy watching the calves.

Boy (n): a noise with dirt on it.

I love this shot of R bathing himself in dirt.  This is the essence of being a little boy.
He had the time of his life right there along the shed, one little blue car in hand and
all the dirt he could want.

Since before he could crawl, R has balanced his chakras with yoga.
Seriously.  When he gets over-excited about something, he often
drops into a Downward Dog, then rises up calm again.  I never even
 taught him this trick, he discovered it on his own!

Aside from random lazer blasts and car muffler noises, these guys were content and fairly quiet.

Climbing the windmill that remains in the yard at Grandpa's house.

My little city boys amazed by the cattle in the pasture.
"What are they saying," AJ asked.
"The Mama cows are calling for their babies," I said.
He stared at them then said, "I hope they find each other."

Huge piles of wood, a broken down trailer, corrals, tire rims...one huge playground to explore.

AJ was shocked at the sheer size of the tractor tires.

"Two people can fit inside!"
Yes.  Two smallish people, my love.

R rushing to the tractor.

R was a smidgen too short to climb up, but patting its big tires as if it was a giant pet expressed his adoration.

The arid and aromatic sagebrush was a new thing to my west-side boys.
I offered a bit to R who wanted to eat it, then to AJ who inhaled it's sweet, wild scent.
"The Native Americans would burn this to perfume the air when they prayed."
"Why?"
"They thought it made God happy."
"Did it?  Did it make God happy?"  he asked.
"I think it did."

Papa and his little men at a rest area along the Columbia River on the way home.  It was a magnificent view.

AJ expending energy at a rest area.

Papa taking R on a little walkabout at a stop in the gorgeous Gorge.

Exploring the terrain.

Still expending...

R needed to expend most of all.  He really doesn't care for long rides in the car.

But the trip was long and fast at the same time.  We camped in a trailer,  had something of a field trip to a dude ranch, stopped every hour along the freeway to let the boys out and exhaust their energy at rest areas or eat the sandwiches I had brought for our meals, and met our little Matthew.  It's good to be home, but I believe getting out once in a while, visiting our loved ones, is (although hard for us) helping our boys explore not only the big world outside our little corner of it, but explore the mysterious, blood-deep inner parts of ourselves, too.

La Vida Loca

The Laundry Chair

There are peas, hard and shriveled, scattered about on the linoleum under the dining table.  They keep company (among other unidentifiable items) with the stiff and brittle ramen noodles that resemble beige snakes frozen with shock.  Something of mysterious origins, sticky and brownish gray, has been splattered, dribbled, then dried on the wall in the living room.  The supposed-to-be white Ektorp sofa from Ikea has mud, blood and green marker all over its cover, like a post modernism work of art.  Tiny rock-hard pieces of purple and yellow playdough have fossilized into the carpet, and remain impossible to extract without a chisel.  All the light switches, each and every one, in every single room in this house, has a solid film of mud covering it.  The windows are smeared with greasy, grimy fingerprints, and would act in some blessed way like a sunblock.  If we ever had sun.  There's a chair in the corner of the living room that we've labeled the "Laundry Chair" because usually as many as five clean loads sit there waiting to be folded, like a disinterested pet, one more body taking up space in our limited space of a place.  The real pets, the cats, should grow thumbs and change their own stinking litter box for once.  AJ's art is not only hanging on the fridge but painted onto the table, spilling out of the quaint boxes I bought to (ironically) organize his craft stuff.  The dishes in the sink could nearly wash themselves.  I secretly hope they do.

These are the days that cause me to wonder.  How can we live in so much disarray, filth, and chaos?  And--for the most part--be okay with it?  For me, I've let myself become tempered, adjusted.  It's not that I like it.    Or simply ignore it.  I see it.  How can I not?  But letting it consume me and take me away from my family time, or worse, pummeling myself for not being capable of executing the endless myriad of tasks and chores, is not an option.  Granted, there are those days when the house smells like wet dog (we don't even HAVE a dog!) and I feel myself sinking into that dismal abyss that makes me greedy:  more space, cleaner kids, less mud-making rain, no cats, etc.  Those days push me to the brink of insanity and I snap, then in a flurry, with lots of yelling at small people under toe who want food or water or attention or other basic life-sustaining necessities, the dishes get done, the floors get swept, the laundry folded and put away.  And those days have taught me, as I reflect in bed at the end of it all, to question was it worth it?  If I could do it all over again, would I?

This is the life.  I love it.  It's at times muddy, bloody, messy, and smelly, but there are so many blessings in this box we call home.  Four brightly shiny souls dwell here, and God sings over us.  This is the season we're in, a brief snap-of-the-fingers in the timeline of our lives.  I cling to it, breathe it in, wallow in it, because it's precious and fleeting. I imagine one day, soon too soon, I'd gladly trade a clean and tidy home to have this crazy life with my boys small and wild again.

Ringing

Trees are measured by the rings of bark.  Hair by inches.  Roads by miles.  Children by months or years.  Or worse, academic achievement.

I think my growth is more vague than years, far more obscure.  I have wiry gray hair sprouting at the roots, and my skin has undergone the change of time, losing the supple smoothness of a young adult, to the brittle, spotty canvas that colors me now.  I love my crows feet, though.  I believe they are the relics of the laughter that carved them there.

I feel my growth is like the rings in a tree.  Internal, private, but there nonetheless.  Fires have left scars, and strong winds have twisted the limbs, but despite the mess, the growth continues from the inside out, shaping through the damage a thing that is knotted, crippled, and breathing, inhaling and metabolizing the smallest bit of light in the hopes that there, in the deepest darkness, form the sprouts of green and radiant life.

Best Choice

I'm a nurvous mother.  I always have been. I worry about being too passive and raising a brat, or about being too militant and creating a child with the same anxieties that I have.  I waver on cow or soy milk.  I occilate on various parenting philosophies.  I am constantly battered by what-ifs and possible regrets.  Few choices are easy for me to make.  Even before I had kids, my husband worried about me and a menu, wondering how many times I'd make the poor waitress scratch that order and take a new one.  Choices are tough for me.  I don't want to make a mistake.  I want my choice to the best one.  And in the end, I often out-think the situation and no matter what, believe that it was my bad choice that precipitated my bad circumstances. 

I've always worried about public school, especially having been a middle school teacher for eight years in one of the finest schools in the state, and experiencing exactly what goes on in a public school with regards to foci, curricula and overall motivation of educators.  I know the limits, the frustrations, the interruptions, the distractions, and the culture of public school. I've always said we'd homeschool.  That was until we moved in July right next door to the best elementary school in the whole city, and I wondered if God had actually given me a sign or a test to send my oldest off to public school. 

Then AJ started preschool at our church, and although he had a terrific year with his teacher going two half days a week, this year his teacher was more militant and negetive.  So much so that we felt we needed to pull him out and I've been teaching him at home his ABCs, handwriting, numbers, counting and some basic math.  At first it was painful. He hated it.  He was so damaged by that one month in preschool that I had to do a lot of triage to get him willing to learn and eager for school at the dinner table. 

But after three months of doing school at home with things I've printed off the internet or workbooks I got at the grocery store, AJ and I have found it to be a really rewarding time together.  I give him lots of praise and my motto has become "if you work as hard as you can, I'll do anything for you."  There are limits to that, of course.  But he's never requested anything (so far) that is outragous. It's usually along the lines of watching Scooby-Doo, or Star Wars.  But he's made a ton of progress in learning, and our relationship is stronger than ever. 

What I know about him is this:  he's brilliant.  He's creative and his capacity to daydream or doodle and become social is his distraction and academic downfall.  He's eager to impress other kids, and when he was going to preschool last fall, he was way too busy horsing around to learn.  It got him in a lot of trouble.  At home, he has the freedom to focus on the task, and his only distraction is himself, and that we can learn to manage.  I also know that he needs a lot of external direction right now until he's developed enough to hold his own. 

The kindergartens here are full days.  That's seven hours a day for my five year old child to be spending his time with another person, and other people.  Hey, I'm all for socializing a child, but my question is how much of those seven hours are educational?  I know.  All of them.  Every hour away from home he is learning how to behave from his peers.  He's learning social injustices on the playground, either for or against.  He's learning the politics of making friends and learning the gore of losing them.  All these things are great for human growth.  I don't want him to be raised in a bubble.  But I have strong reservations about sending him away for seven hours. 

I'm still praying about our choices.  I woke three days ago with a horrible anxiety about him starting school.  Part of me really feels that this is my job.  I'm home and why shouldn't I homeschool him?  Why should we lose those seven precious hours to a faulty educational system when we could be learning and growing together?  I do feel it's my calling.  And it horrifies me.  If he could go half days, I don't think I'd have the same feelings.  But if he goes half day then he'd be truant. 

Our school district has a homeschool academy that offers supplemental classes to homeschooled students.  It can meet as often as 14 hours a week to as few as 75 minutes a week.  When I found this it did give me some relief.  It would be a great middle of the road answer.  I would still be his primary teacher, and our time would be home together, school would last one hour or two tops, then he could play with his other friends that are homeschooled, or attend outside supplement classes.  I'm not worried about his social life.  I think the notion that public school is a better option because it socializes kids is dangerous.  Some kids need to be in public school because there are gaps at home.  But I feel it's my job to introduce the world to my children.  Socializing happens at church, at home, at the grocery store, on play dates, in sports, at family events, at camps, etc.  And his models are us as his parents.  And I worry that the idea of sending kids to public school to socialize them undermines the relationship a child has with his or her parent(s).  What is more important to a five year old?  The relationship he has with his parents or the one he creates with his peers? 

I'm trying really hard right now to talk myself into getting behind the idea of public school, and researching hard for evidence that points to public school offering more in the way of confidence and higher academic scores as children develop.  Haven't found any yet.  I feel my job is supposed to set him up for success.  Many many kids find it in public school.  I don't believe it's the best match for my AJ.  I'll continue to pray about this.  Right now, I'm loving his attitude, and our tightening relationship.

On a Saturday

I have never been a fan of Spring, frankly. In my adolescence there were about five years that something tragic happened between Valentine's Day and Easter. As I grew up, I watched Spring come around the corner and felt an overwhelming desire to run for cover. This is the season that marks the anniversary of my parents gory divorce, my miscarriage, a cousin's suicide, facing my weight issues, failed relationships, and tragic loss.  Failure and depression. Spring was not about bunnies and robin nests, flowers and butterflies, but a harbinger of sorrow. I learned to hate Spring. I hated it all. From pastel-painted eggs to yellow tulips. Even the sunshine became my enemy.  It was all one prettily wrapped package that when opened exploded in my hands. 

I resented recovering from the coziness of minty, frosty, sparkly Winter, to adjust to the aloof and "diva" attitude of spring. I hated the tank tops, the shorts, the moody weather, the longer days. I waited impatiently for June when, according to my math, Summer, with his dreadlocks and tie die T-shirts, smelling of coconut sunscreen and barbecues, was a friend with whom I would blare Bob Marley and muddle some fresh mint for mojitos.  But in our part of the world, Spring means rain, and long dark days inside. It means you know that worms squish and slugs crunch. Spring is the color of moss and mold. It's the sound of sloshing through puddles and windshield wipers scraping across the glass. It's the smell of decay. This time last year I was immersed in the deepest of depressions that was as lonely as it was dark. 

So I admit I tremble when this fine-tuned philosophy surfaces altered this year. I have been guarded against the black doors of depression. I've had my bottle of St. John's Wort ready since New Year's Day. I've given my dirty looks to all manikins in the mall displaying shades of pink, mint green, sky blue, and butter yellow. I've kept busy. Too busy. I'm looking for a week off, actually. But it's different this year. I'm different. Something is happening. 

Aaron stumbled quite innocently upon a wonderful park south of our home.  It's only around the corner from us nestled in a lovely neighborhood .  The park has a serpentine paved trail that loops around the children's toys, to a shallow valley field that is fringed in poplars, firs, old growth oak, and aspens, with earthen foot trails meandering throughout.  Twice I have spotted the sunshine peaking from behind the clouds and I have rushed the boys to this secret park.  AJ rides his Big Wheel down the hill to the toys where little R is playing, and I stroll behind them both, once even laying on the warm grass dried by a firm, warm breeze, and watched--for the first time in at least twenty years--the clouds change shape in the high winds in the sky. 

Today, a cool but clear Saturday, we started off at the pool, then after lunch and nap, headed to our little secret wooded park.  I heard the strangest noise there, bubbling up from my own mouth.  Laughter.  It startled me.  I glared at a robin singing on nearby branch, for good anti-spring measure.  How could I not relish the sight of my boys in the labyrinth of trails under the trees?  It was a genuine laugh, and although alarmed, something was released.  And feeling lighter and freer than I have ever on a sunny spring day, I watched my boys.  Collecting all that I could on this moment, this bright spring day in their lives.

AJ has my vivid and overactive imagination.  He saw an arrangement of moss covered boulders and sitting squarely on one that resembled an arm chair, used a small bit of soggy bark as a remote to change the channel of the TV boulder in front of him.  I remember doing the exact same thing on a pile of lumber on my grandparents' farm.  I had a house in the pile.  I had a living room, steps down to a basement, steps up to a bedroom and haunted attic.  Seeing this in him warmed me through. 

R was a real outdoors man, running into the undergrowth, hiking far (too far) ahead of us as scout, picking up impressive sticks and whacking them against the rocks, trees, or ferns.  He's accoutstically sensitive like his father, and listens to the noise he created with keen ears and unblinking eyes.  He offered to taste test everything he found, as a toddler, that is really the only real test of something's worth, I suppose.  He loves nature and activity, and he encouraged his big brother to find the fun in the woods.  And Aaron and I sat back and watched, smiling.  Then I look to him and I see this man whom I've been with for 16 years, and marvel at how deeply I respect him and love him, as we stand with linked arms, watching our young boys play.

Persephone has lifted her sleepy head and touched the earth with the tiniest green hints of new buds and regrowth. Winter with his burly beard is finally stepping off the stage and Spring, dawned in flowing green gowns, inhales deeply before releasing a most tender soprano chanson. This is the inhale. The world smells like wet earth, feels like dewy grass, sounds like birdsong, and carries with it an impression of hope and rebirth.  

I smiled, and laughed at the sight of them, our feral, noisy boys boys barking like puppies in a field on a cool spring day, frolicing in the light.   And I wondered if, after all these years, Spring and I were finally making peace.

Off-Center

It's been one of those days where it feels like all I've accomplished was wash dishes, cook meals, and damage my precious offspring.

I was haunted by nightmares last night.  A good friend and fellow English teacher I spoke with before bed was grieving a student's suicide.  It affected me bone deep.  What causes a junior in high school to give up on life before he's even tasted it?  Then I see my little guys, and I'm horrified by the tests they'll face in the world as they grow up.  Can I do enough to save them?  To instill in them a constant fountain of hope?  After this disturbing and sad phone conversation, to relax and escape from the hard real world, Aaron and I popped in a movie that had just come in on Netflix, in the hopes of somehow disconnecting from those horrible realities that wound us and others.  Sometimes life is just too dark to look in to.  It was a spy thriller that had been sitting in our queue for a while.  Pretty graphic and bloody.  No wonder I had evil dreams.  I woke up feeling unclean in my mind.  Like I had seen something I wish I never had.  It was such a strong feeling, I rose from my blankets feeling tired and off-center.  It didn't go away all day long. 

I wish I could rise in the morning before they do.  I have waken before them in the past.  I can do it.  I know how to set an alarm or respond to my husband's gentle nudge as he slips into the dark hallway to jog at the gym at five in the morning.  But my kids (and I wonder if this is true of others') can sense me walking down the hall.  As soon as my toes land on the carpet in the hall outside their door their antennae quiver and their little dark eyes roll over like sharks, they throw off the covers, launch from the bed, to tackle me en route to the office where I write my morning pages.  This account may be only slightly exaggerated.  On more maternal days I absorb AJ's morning smell, his gangly, floppy limbs shaking off the sleep, his crazy hair poking out all directions.  Today was not one of those days.  I felt robbed and raged at him.  "Stay in there until I tell you to come out!"  I huffed like a quarterback in a huddle.  My time, albeit brief, in the morning was stolen from me. 

Coffee. That's what makes a day a bit brighter.   A jolt of caffeine in the system is warming and cozy. Should level me out.  I ground the beans then yanked R from his crib none too gently, and changed him.  My adoring husband had gotten pull-ups rather than diapers for him and overnight had wet through everything.  I was cranky and getting worse. 

It didn't help that when I dragged the boys downstairs, slammed them into their seats and commenced making breakfast did I notice the waterfall of coffee pouring from the machine to cascade onto our floor.  The lid hadn't opened on the thermal pot, the grinds and hot brown liquid drenched everything. 

Ten minutes later (coffee grinds, right?  IMPOSSIBLE to clean easily!) I throw the boys bowls of cereal, stomp up the stairs spitting mad at this point to get dressed and take Aaron to work.  Aaron listens as he buttons his shirt and loops his neck tie.  He must think I'm crazy.  I think I may be.  But he's quiet and I finish my diatribe, and stomp down stairs again to wipe the boys off from breakfast, load them up and take them to work. 

The rest of the day was a list of events that kept me half a step off.  The worst part was the boys.  I was so unfair to them.  I was cranky and moody and didn't show much love or understanding.  I feel like my cup wasn't even half empty today, but barely wet.  And I put them to bed with tired eyes, limp arms, and a cold heart.  I had nothing to give at all.  I hope they forgive me for being human someday.  When they have their own children and have days like this.  I pray they love me anyway.  And know that even on days like this when the rain is constant, the wind is cool, and the worms cover the cement, I loved them so much it physically hurt me knowing I couldn't pull it together enough to show it.

First Born

Son, do you know how humbled I am by your spirit?  Can you see it in my eyes the unbounded hope and love I have for you?  Can you feel it when I wrap my arms around you?  Do you sense it when I tell you how grateful I am that God gave you to me and that I'm the luckiest mama in the world because you are my son, my child, my family, and I get the immense honor of raising you and watching you grow into a man and walking beside you in life?  You are a marvel.  You are amazing.  You slip on R's rain boots and as he flops around on the floor like a large doll you shove his pudgy hands into his coat sleeves and zip him up, then standing back admire your work and declare "mama, we're going outside!" 

Where did this instant maturity come from?  Is this responsibility for your little brother innate or a byproduct of the profound love you have for him?  A big brother thing?  An oldest child thing?

I see you, Son.  I know you so well.  I know you're intelligence is advanced far ahead of your development, and that gets you in trouble.  You argue like a fifteen year old.  You possess an elephant's memory.  I see your heart.  It's good.  Strong.  Remember, I saw you in my belly on that gray-tone screen, and I heard your heartbeat when you were only three inches tall, and your Papa and I, tears streaming down our cheeks, knew then that your spirit was strong.  With that comes a heart that is soft and tender.  I saw you at 19 weeks jumping around in my womb like an elk, or a gazelle or some wonderful, wild  beast that is tiny and mighty.  You still are a wild and wonderful beast, and I sit back to watch you, and feel myself holding breath at the sight of something so magnificent, so raw and wholesome, it moves me to tears.

You are headstrong, and that's a great attribute to have as and adult.  But hard to manage when you're five.  I see you suffer for that.  In this way, you're just like me.  We learn best by learning through pain, you and I.  My prayers are always that you learn faster than your mother, so your life isn't heavy with regrets and scars, such as mine.  Oh, you will overcome them, and become your own champion, but the mountain is steep, and slippery, and you will struggle before you conquer the summit.  You and I are the like this.  I see you.  I know you so well.

You have an imagination that doesn't stop, no limits, no ends.  I see myself at five years old, my hair in pigtails and my Barbies in hand, when you play your imaginary games, your capacity to lose yourself in your play and fictional world.  I confess, I still do this through my writing, and I pray that you hold tight to your imagination.  The world will try to take it from you.  Grip to it with white knuckles.  You are a creative spirit.  God help me raise you in your own beautiful bend. You are blessed and challenged with this atypical artistic streak.  I've recently given you my palette of water colors.

This week you graduated from Crayola to Windsor Newton.  And the lame plastic bristle brush is replaced by a real sable hair Richardson's, the kind the pros use.  And you have learned to make "pigment mud," as we say, mixing just the right amount of water with the paint in the wells.  You paint like an apprentice.  You tell stories like an old man.  An old soul.  You are, as I've known all along, ancient. 

You are helpful.  You break eggs like an expert and help me read recipes.  You like to take care of R and are always generously sharing your art with us, giving us tokens of your craft.  A small scrap of paper with a Batman or T-Rex drawn on it.  A leaf or dandelion from outside.  A feather that poked through the pillow. You give.  You're a giver. Your heart is a magnanimous one.  In my rush to do and clean and cook and wash and organize, your gifts may feel wasted.  They're not.  Let me assure you.  Every tiny bit of thread, of paper, or fabric, or even the way your lids lower on your eyes to give you a distinct soft look of adoration that you get from your papa, is not wasted on me.  I absorb it.  I inhale your gifts and your help, and feel such pride in you.  If lifts me on days that I'm dragging.  You are my wings.

A mother's eye knows her son is beautiful.  When I look at you I know that you will outshine your parents with your extraordinary good looks.  A movie star.  A heartbreaker.  You'll make the dames weep with your dark sparkly eyes and deep-dimpled grins.  I pray around this often, because it can be a difficult and confusing life being so attractive. 

I see you so tall, so smart, already five and a half, and I am humbled by you. You've been my greatest teacher. I have learned so much from you, and you will never stop teaching me. Ever.  I prayed for you, for a long time, from when I was too young to even understand what it meant when my heart cried out for boy child, and God was gracious.  He was so generous.  He gave me you.  Your name means strong and masculine.  You share names with the saints.  You named for both a man who walked beside Christ, broke bread with him, drank wine with him, as well as honoring your great grandfather, also named after a saint, a man who labored hard and cursed in Spanish only to crumble on his knees before God.  You are wonderfully amazing.  My heart can't contain the love I have for you.  I know God has big plans for you.  I always pray you hear his voice.  Listen.  He's constantly speaking to us.
You are a marvel, Son.  I'm so glad you're my boy.  I know you will be an awesome man because you are an awesome person.