He's not like anyone you have
ever met. Like nobody anyone has ever met. The first sign that something was
amiss came with the first ultrasound. He was grinning! His mischievous grin, I
now know. The same one I have seen dozens of times, right before he does
something little kids just do not do, and I go into panic mode, once again.
Just biding his time. Just waiting to pop out and shock the world.
The day of his birth rolled around. A
c-section. As soon as he was pulled out, he raised his head and looked around
at the doctor and nurses, individually, as if in greeting. They were
dumbfounded.
I watched him on my living room floor,
when he was entering that stage were babies lie on their stomach and wiggle
around. He put his hands on the floor and tried to push up, again and again.
Finally, he raised his upper
body off the floor, held, his arms started to quiver, then collapse. Nothing abnormal here. But he did
it again, held a little longer, arms shook more, tears started to flow.
Collapse. Up again – tears – a little longer – Collapse. This was repeated,
again, again, and again. Tears, hard sweat now. Finally, total exhaustion.
Temporarily delayed, never defeated. A healthy respect started to grow within
me. How could his tiny body contain so much determination?
Winter came. It was cold in that house.
His family lives like North Pole people. He was put into a sleeper, zipped up.
The next morning, he was naked in his crib. Though he was far too small to
leave that crib, little signs of mystery began to show up here and there. He
had wandered at will about that house, naked.
I put a couple of rounds of duct tape
around his chest, to keep that sleeper on. No luck. Next, a safety pin was
fastened to the inside of the zipper, near the top. The next morning he was
naked in his crib, punching holes in the mattress with the open safety pin.
I went shopping. In the fishing department,
I found a giant snap swivel, so strong I could barely open it. I substituted it
for the safety pin the next night. The next morning, the sleeper was still on,
but he must have found a tiny hole in the toe, worked it, worked it, and worked
it until one whole leg was out, which he proudly displayed.
His father, worn out by this struggle, was
beginning to fathom the depth of his determination. He just asked, “Which
sleeper do YOU want to wear?”
He pointed one out. End of the
great sleeper struggle.
For a time, his parents kept him in his
crib with an elaborate, tent like structure over the top. Then, they just had
to give up. He wandered the house at will at night, still too small to get out
of that crib, supposedly.
They had chocolate cake for supper, just
as he was beginning to talk. He loved it. He asked for seconds.
“No, save it for tomorrow”
Our subject calmly stated, “Mom, while you
are asleep, I will come in and get a second piece.” Well, he was less than two
years old now, small for his age. But mom placed it on top of the fridge, just
in case. The next morning, the cake was on the kitchen floor, intact, except
for a piece missing, and a chocolate trail leading to his crib. After the
scolding, they just had to ask; “How did you do that?”
He brought out a two step ladder with a
circle bar on top for a handle. “I stood on top,” he explained, pointing to the
handle.
They were on vacation in a condo. He slept
on the folded up hide-a-bed. When morning came, he was just gone. Could not be
found. After a time, he crawled out of the bowels of the folded up hide-a-bed.
He always liked tight places, loved the challenge of going where it seemed
impossible for him to go.
I took him for a walk in an athletic
field. I always try to keep him in large, open spaces, out of trouble. We came
to metal bleachers by the tennis court. He started climbing half way up, going
to the end, jumping off, rolling out of it. He never hurts himself when he
falls. I was distracted for a moment, a very bad thing. When I looked around,
he was at the top level, about to jump. My scream caused him to slip, and he
fell down through the framework. He hit a bar that cartwheeled him. Hit another
bar, another cartwheel. Finally, he hit the ground with a splat. I ran to him.
The breath was knocked out of him. When he recovered from it somewhat, he said,
“I need to sit down for a minute.” No tears. We have an understanding in our
family. If a hurt brings tears, call 911. At the end of that minute, almost
exactly, that grin started to spread across his face as he jumped up. “I'm
going to do that again!”
“No, you're not,” I said. “We're going
home.” column
My wife's family reunion rolled around.
Later, we all visited the old farm home site. It was surrounded by hundreds of
acres of plowed ground. The kids all romped and played. This one child,
different than the rest, now two, started walking away. Farther and farther he
went. Finally, a concerned adult asked, “When will he turn around?”
“He won't,” I replied. “I will have to go
get him eventually.”
To make my point, I just watched. I decided
I would just let him go, as long as he was in no danger. He became a speck in
the distance. Finally, I started moving fast to catch up, before he had time to
get to a road. He and I walked back, as the families watched. He tripped,
falling face first in the dirt. A collective “oooooooooh!” arose from the
onlookers. I paid no attention. He arose, wiped the dirt off his face, so he
could see, and quickly caught up. He never hurts himself with his falls.
He was approaching three now, watching his
brother's basketball practice. The coach was a hard case, ran his team with an
iron hand. His teams almost never lost. Parents were afraid of him. When
practice was over, our subject walked onto the court, shook the coach's pants
leg, and said something.
The coach could not hear. The coach got
down on a knee, face to face, and said, “What did you say, buddy?”
“I said, that was not nice of you, telling
my brother to get his butt back on the court!”
Everyone fell silent. The coach raised up, red faced. One or two of the
coach's buddies laughed quietly momentarily, but they were quickly silenced by
a red-faced glare.
At the next practice, the coach stated to
a group of parents, “Well, I've never been dressed down like that by anyone
that small! Then he laughed.
Then, everybody laughed.
Our subject was approaching five now. I
have a two story tree house in my yard, for the children around me. To keep the
small children below, and safe, a knotted rope must be climbed to reach the
second floor. Well, it didn't work out right. The older children could not do
it. Guess who did? You guessed it. Right to the top. When I arrived on the
scene, he was on the second floor roof, singing a song to celebrate his
accomplishment.
Time for the church fish fry. Our friends
host this at their farm. Some of my wife's family were there, along with our
subject. My wife has a large family, lots of kids, from 5 to 12. A couple of the girls, 12 years old, ran the
show. The older boys, 10 and 11, ran from these girls. For good reason.
Well, one of the older girls climbed up on
a tractor. Our subject started up. She gently put her foot against his face,
pushed him back. He needed to know his place. A major mistake. He came back,
tiny fists flying. All night he pursued her. When he found her, he always
attacked, fists flying. He finally graduated to a stick. When a rescuing parent
was finally brought to the scene, she was back peddling, “Get away from me, you
little kid!”
On the way home, he was counseled wisely
by his older brother. “You just can't do that,” he said, “to older kids. They
will beat you up!”
“They may beat me up,” he replied, “But I
will hurt them while they do!”
He's at the top of the kid pecking order
now. When older kids see trouble with him on the horizon, they run tell us.
They want no part of having to fight a small bundle of fury again, again, and
again.
When kindergarten rolled around, his
mother took him to preschool visitation. It was at the school his parent's
badly wanted him to go to, as his older brother was there. But, the
kindergarten classes were about filled up, and his chances were slim. We had
all stressed to him about respecting and obeying the Principal. We had no idea
what might happen in a school situation, because of his nature. When they
signed in, he asked, “Is the Principal here?”
“Yes, she's over there.”
“I would like to meet her.”
When the secretary called her over, his
mother told her, “I have a young man here who wants to meet you.” And, she
added, privately, “So, run with it!”
The principal, a very large, tall, stern
lady, bent over to get her face next to his. Looked him right in the eye
sternly, and said, “If you come here, and act like God and your mama want you
to, you will have no trouble. But if you come here and cause problems, you will
have lots of trouble!”
He looked her in the eye awhile, then that
grin appeared. “Nah, you won't have any trouble from me. I can count to 20!
wanta' hear it?”
She burst out laughing, losing all her
bluster. “I would LOVE to hear you count to 20!” Privately, she said to his
mama, “I will see to it PERSONALLY that he goes to school here!” Somehow, he
managed to snag the very last kindergarten slot.
True to his word, she had no trouble with
him. Nor did his teacher. However, he was not good at obeying teachers whose
class he was not in. Unquestioning obedience to an adult, just because they are
bigger than him (almost everyone is) is just not a part of his makeup. But a
logical, calm approach by his mother, about the “right thing to do” did the
trick.
Millions for logic, not one single penny
for intimidation.
CONTINUED
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