>Redefining Defiance

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I really thought things would be better by now. At three and a half, he’s more linebacker than preschooler.

We watched from the sidelines – too late – while he ran, head-down-full-tackle on his seven year old brother, folding him neatly in half and clean off his feet.

At night, I creep in and kiss him, breathing in the innocence still underneath his brash, independent exterior. He turns the lamp on in protest after I’ve left the room; one foot still shod in Lighting McQueen slipper.

I wonder what he’ll been like at 14. At 40. This independence will do well for him, one day. For now, I’m nearly dead – the strain of calm voice/cool head is exhausting. Too often I fail.

This tiny tyrant has more chutzpah, more gall, more bravado in his pinky finger than I ever had. Or so it feels. (My father tells me otherwise. I don’t believe him.)

What will you become, you enormous little man? Like it or not, you’re my baby and always will be. My Boo Boo, my final son.

When you’re hurt, you cry for me and no one else. When you’re scared, your arms wrap twice around Daddy’s neck. When you’re happy – those dimples, so deadly.

Even when you’re angry – cheeks flushed, eyes bright. As you scream I can’t help but think you’re beautiful. Terrifying, but beautiful.

May God grant me the ability to be your compass, your guide – pointing you ever in the right direction. Bending, not breaking that extraordinary will. Pruning and modeling and failing, even, so that you may know how to heal, how to grow.

For now, just sleep my wee son. Sleep.

The world’s not ready for you yet.

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