Top Management, as is her wont, said something really interesting in the car today.
We were driving to pick up the minivan, which had been recalled (all is now well, they claim). We’d dropped off the girls at pal Lisa’s, so it was just the two of us and The Boy. A gorgeous day for driving or just about anything else, warm and sunny with blue skies and a few puffy clouds here and there, we had Suzanne Vega on for The Boy’s enjoyment while we chatted.
We looked back to make sure he was happy and indeed he was, simply looking around, staring out this window and then that, checking out the stuff in the car—he doesn’t ride in the Saturn very often and always seems amused by the idea, his smile wry—admiring Suzanne’s improbably pure vocals, his face seeming to reflect whatever was going through his impenetrable (if particularly vulnerable) little mind at that exact moment; like all kids, he doesn’t exactly have a poker face yet and his expression seemed to be constantly altering as he looked at this or that or the other thing.
And then suddenly he was asleep. It was amazing to behold. You’d think that after a combined forty years of parenthood we’d be used to it, but no, it really never gets old: kids are just so perfect when they’re asleep.
It was almost like Holly Hunter in "Raising Arizona": Top Management burst out, "I just love him so much." Not the tears or hysterics of Holly but the same sentiment.
But then she threw me. She said, "It’s different for me. You’ve had a little Mini-Me before. Three of them, in fact. But now I finally have a little Mini-You."
I thought about that. Whenever people would ask me if I wanted a little boy, I’d always respond, why? Why would I? Max was the greatest thing I’d ever been given in my life, so why would I want anything different? And then The Rose came along and even though she was completely different from Max in every way, she was a little girl, too (obviously) and absolutely perfect as well. And then along bounced The Bean and once again I had a little girl who was utterly perfect in every way. Why on earth would I want something different? Not to mention that I’ve known for well over three decades that girls are just way better than boys in every single way.
And she’s right—of the many, many things I loved about each of my little girls, many of them tied in to the fact that they were little Lissas. Max looked EXACTLY like her mom when was she was tiny and now has all her most basic personality traits. The Rose has Top Management’s efficient streak and deep love of nature, as well as her never-ending desire for a backrub. The Bean has her same sunny disposition and inexhaustible energy. I’ve got four variations on the greatest woman ever created.
So no, I never wanted a son. And she didn’t either—or, at least, she didn’t think she did. But now that she’s got one, she realizes she’s got what I’ve had all these years. And she’s mighty pleased about it.
I still wouldn’t have given him that Y chromosome, had I really the option. But now that he’s here? Yeah. He’s okay. He looks like my grandfather, which is kinda funny. And he’s got my oh so sophisticated and subtle sense of humor. Unfortunately, he’s also got my sense of hygiene. I’ve got him on the hearing thing for now, but in another few years we’ll probably be about even on that too.
And he likes me more than his sisters did at this age. Oh, don't get me wrong—they liked me. I'll even go so far as to say they loved me. But he likes me more. He's just as attached to his mom as his sisters were, but he's way happier to see his dad than they ever were.
The funniest thing is, he’s the first kid to be entranced by the sound of music—when Lissa sings, he’s captivated. Put him down by the piano and he’ll walk back and forth for twenty minutes, playing the bass notes, then the treble, then the bass, then the middle register and over and over, exploring this sonority and that, what happens if he presses a bunch of keys or very carefully picks out just one to press again and again. Isn’t that like us? The kid who can’t hear is the one who loves music.
All this leaves the real puzzler, of course: why on earth would she WANT another me? For that matter, why would she want the original?
Hm. Best not to question, methinks.
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