Addie

My son Addison can break your heart.

There is something truly magical about him, though I cannot explain exactly what I mean by that. I think you just have to know him. My neighbor Joe recently said, "That kid needs a theme song." If you know Addie, you know what he means. Addie is funny, quirky, and ultra-cool. He is his own man, with his own unique dance through life. I'll watch him as he leads his friends into a world of imagination, boundless in possibility. I wish I'd known someone like him when I was young. We would have been the best of friends.

Addie has always been extremely verbal. When he was not yet two years old, he turned to Stan and said, "Daddy, could you lift me up onto the counter because I want to grab three apples and give them to Mama so she can juggle them."

That ought to give you some idea of what we're dealing with here.

He is dedicated to the pursuit of full disclosure; that is to say, he can explain his every emotion, yours too; he assesses every situation and reports on it throughout the day; he doesn't miss a trick. He has a rare gift for communication. A cupcake isn't just "good", it's "delectable". If he can't be pulled away from an art project, it's because he's "putting the finishing touches on it". And if he's sad and doesn't want to play, he will explain he's "feeling fragile". At a party last month, the neighbor kids were playing too rough in the bounce house. He came to tell me that they were "torturing and torturing" each other, and then announced that he was going to let them know their folly. He marched right over to the bounce house, stuck his head in the net opening, and began to reason with them in a slightly raised voice. None of them heard him of course, but it did not deter his efforts. I was his only listener (devoted mom that I am), and kept looking around to see if anyone else thought this was as precious as I did.

Nope. I guess they were all too busy watching their own little geniuses.

Is it just me, or does every mother do that- look around every five minutes to see if everybody noticed the adorable thing their kid just did? I admit it, I get that dumb look on my face- that idiotic mix of pride and love and disbelief- and glance around after every moment I deem noteworthy, be it miraculous or mundane. It's pathetic. I'll be at the playground watching him climb the jungle gym, and if he so much as utters a slightly precocious phrase, I'll glance proudly and furtively around... "Did you all hear THAT?!" Stan and I have both mastered the art of shameless offspring admiration, so when we're together watching our kids, forget it. It's out of control, because we'll simply glance at EACH OTHER for the appreciation. A fan club of two.

What always cracks me up is listening to Stan brag to the pediatrician. From the time Addie was a baby, Stan's unabashed pride was off the charts.

Two months old:

Doc: "So, is he holding his head up yet?"

Stan: (scoffing) "Is he holding his head up. HA!"

(Doc grabs the tiny fists and lifts. Baby's head lolls back lifelessly.)

Stan: (incredulous) "Well, THAT'S a first! Come ON, Addie..."

One year:

Doc: "Is he talking yet?"

Stan: (scoffing)"Is he TALKING YET."

Doc (to Addie): "How ya doin' there, buddy?"

Addie: (blank silence)

Stan: (incredulous) "Oh come ON, Addie! Doc, ya gotta believe me..."

I still think our pediatrician thinks Stan's a big liar, since it's the only place Addie has decided to clam up. He also still speaks to Addie a bit slowly, like he's Forrest Gump.

Strangely enough, one of my favorite things about Addie is watching him work his way through anger. From the time he was a toddler, he could take that angelic face, lower his chin, and glare up at you from under deeply furrowed brow. You would swear he was wishing you into the cornfield. You would find the sudden urge to mutter, "It's GOOD that you feel that way, Addie. It's REAL good. And tomorrow's gonna be a REAL GOOD DAY."

These days, the only time Addie displays any real moodiness is when he hasn't eaten for a while. Blood sugar plummets, and he becomes a bit unreasonable until we manage to get a little nourishment into his stubborn stomach. Last week the family went to Disneyland, and a swell time was had by all. But all the fun had delayed our midday meal, not to mention you seem to need a Fastpass for the lunch lines at peak hour. So there we were outside Soarin' over California after a long wait for food, trying to get our temporarily crabby Addie to take a bite of his burger so his mood would normalize. He wasn't having it- the burger, or our admonitions to eat it. He began to make quiet, idle threats, which he is an expert at: "I am not going to eat that cheeseburger, now or ever, Mama. I am going to go back to the car and sit there and not ride any more rides with you, Mama. I am going to squirt this ketchup in your eye, Mama." To which I always calmly reply, "No you're not, because you know what will happen if you do."

But this time, instead of mulling this response over and giving up, Addie looked at me, lowered that chin, wished me into the cornfield, and then it happened: his right hand came up into a fist in front of his face. He stared intensely at his own fist, and then I saw him slowly, oh so slowly and with great effort, lift his ring finger up. He stared at the picture he had created, and as he examined it he instantly realized: wrong finger. With equal effort, he put his ring finger back into the fist and then with great concentration began to raise the correct, offensive finger, all the while looking at me with a mixture of anger and sheer dread.

Before you judge the boy (or his parents) too harshly, you must know that the reason he knows this gesture, and its meaning, is because about a year ago he once used that finger to point to something. I told him we should always use our index finger to point, that putting up our middle finger all by itself was not nice. "Why?" he asked. "Because," I explained, "People will think you're telling them to, uh... go jump in a lake."

Which brings us to the burger moment.

Now I know I am supposed to instantly put him in the Designated Disneyland Naughty Chair for attempting to flip his mother the bird, but the look of consternation on his face- mixed with the great effort it took to muster the courage to lift his middle finger out of his tightly clenched fist- well, I burst out laughing. I had to turn my face away, because I didn't want him to see that I found this funny. I took a deep breath and tried to turn back to scold him, but there he was with his middle finger half-up, waiting to see whether he wanted to commit to the full, extended length of finger and perhaps suffer the consequences... and I lost it again. I simply couldn't contain my glee... or my love.

I hereby humbly apologize in advance if someday my boy Addie gives you the finger. You can blame me. Clearly I am a terrible parent and have inadvertently taught my son that this obscene gesture is just about the funniest thing in the world.

Every day, Addie provides me with another story... another moment I'll want to bottle up and preserve forever. Yesterday, he didn't want to go to school and thus was making our exit quite difficult. He ended up losing a star off his achievement chart, and he was heartbroken over this. It's very hard for me to punish him, because he cries just like I do; his lip quivers, he tries to be brave and hold it all in, and thus he can hardly speak through his tears. I put him in the car as he sobbed, telling him maybe he could earn a star back that evening by helping with dinner. These words of encouragement didn't seem to help, so I buckled his car seat and kissed his forehead goodbye. But he wouldn't let me go. He clutched me tightly, pulled me back to his tear-stained face, and sputtered out the words, "Mama... this... is... not... easy."

That's Addie- summing it all up so simply, so profoundly. I held him tight, and said simply, "I know." It sure isn't easy- these lessons learned, this life navigated. My son and I see the world through similar eyes. He feels the joy and the pain as deeply as I do. He reflects back to me the rawest and most wrenching emotions I possess. I'm not sure if I should thank him or punish him for this... but I do know one thing: I am so lucky to know him.