November 8, 2008
I'm grateful for Brevin.
When I first found out I was having a boy I was totally nervous. I wanted a boy, I just wasn't sure what to do with one. I wondered what it would be like to change his diaper and have something extra in there (I found out it is a wet surprise as he pee'd on me pa-lenty). I wondered if boys were really different from girls. I wondered if he'd look as handsome as his dad. Somehow I thought maybe he'd be born a little tougher, a little more rough, and a little more . . . I dunno, boyishly stoic and distant.
But, boy! oh boy!, was I wrong. When Brevin was born we learned little white boys are generally weaker than other babies. He spent the first two days in the hospital nursery under an oxygen hood until a small hole in his lung fixed itself (it's called a neumo-thorax) and at the time it was sooo hard to not be able to hold him and cuddle him. I worried those first hours of bonding that were missed would further my speculations that my relationship with him would be different than what I had with my girls. But it wasn't. In fact, I would often repeat my good friend Patty's words of wisdom: my baby boy was the best boyfriend EVER. Granted, Caylee preceding Brevin by only 16 months and her . . . let's call it impatience as a baby may have tainted our view, but Tyler and I were fairly certain Brevin was about the BEST, most sweet, completely content, easy, and lovable baby around, even though he was a boy.
Now that we've had two more boys, I can add my testimony that my other boys have been absolutely wonderful, too, as babies. Somewhere between 18 months and 3 years old they evolve into something closer to what I initially imagined with their climbing and hitting and fit-throwing and, well, throwing. I learned, when Brock followed the same course as Brevin (going from sweet baby to part-hellian - his current stage-), that I needed to cherish that first year. (Luckily I am totally sucking in all Briggs goodness before he turns to the dark side.)
Brevin is now 5. I'd say his charm has returned.
Brevin is my heart. He has the most sweet moments of genuine love and compassion. He doesn't hesitate to compliment me and he is getting so good about sharing his gratitude for the little things he enjoys. He's a pleaser (which I love to see cuz I know what a motivator it will be) and he makes me laugh with his cute little sense of humor. I am grateful to watch his imagination at work every day AND I am grateful he loves to read book after book after book. While he definitely has his own opinions, I think he's pretty easy to get a long with. And pretty much he's one of my most sensitive kids. I hope that doesn't change as he grows up. He has always reminded me a lot of my brother Mike, which naturally endears him more to me (if that's possible.) Basically, I'm pretty smitten.
And as his mom, I want him to be happy and to succeed. So at today's soccer game I cheered and cheered and yelled and cheered and side-coached as much as I could. I could feel his frustration with not being able to score against the other team and I could see him work really hard. Brevin's not THE most graceful athlete I've seen - trust me, he's got a hitch in his giddy-up - but he's improved a lot since he started playing soccer and he loves his team. He pumps himself up every Saturday before the game and since this week was the last chance for a goal this season, he was determined. The first time he was in, he worked and worked and . . . no goal. The second time was the same. I watched him bang his hands on his legs in frustration and thought if I bribed him $1 per goal maybe he could work a bit harder to make it happen for himself. The last time he went in, the other team had us by 7 goals! And as he worked his way down for one last goal I was a screamin' ninny wanting him to get it done so badly. And he did. And it was awesome. And I cheered. And he smiled his gummy grin. And he came straight to me and gave me a big hug. And he said, "I'm so proud of myself, Mom, that I scored that goal!" And so was I. And I was grateful. For him. And for that one silly goal.