There is something about motherhood no one can explain — that thing non-mothers are envious of. Like holding a baby and falling in love. Or the heartbeat so close with an infant resting on your chest that you feel as one. Pregnant with my second child, I worried I wouldn’t love my new baby as much. And then magic happened. I saw my son, and the affection for my daughter didn’t shrink — my heart simply enlarged.
Hot Wheelz was wiry, a man on a mission. Like Grandpa Lang, no one ever mistook him for being sissy. He had the clearest crystal blue eyes of the bunch, and dimples that sucked me in. “How do you ever tell him no?” my mom had asked. It wasn’t easy and rarely happened.
Hot Wheelz could commandeer the foursome into sleep-outs — on the backyard trampoline, in the driveway-parked Vanagon, or in tents in the living room fashioned from sheets thrown over chairs, lined by a path of Dr. Seuss books strewn to protect us from lava (rust-colored carpeting seen through imaginative eyes). He’d eat a snail on a dare, and any restaurant with free root beer refills faced possible bankruptcy.
As a single mom with a gaggle of young children, I didn’t think about dating. Even so, he had sensed my anxiety about being alone. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Hot Wheelz said. “I’ll always stay with you.”
At bedtime he repeatedly spent the night in my room. He minimized my pain.
“Isn’t that sweet?” I bragged to one of my friends.
Hot Wheelz overheard me. “I changed my mind,” he stated. “My sister said if I live with you, no one will marry me.” To top it off, I discovered he stayed in my room because during the hot summer nights I possessed the only fan.
As a young boy, Hot Wheelz wanted to see Robocop. So I’d rented it. It sounded like a cartoon. I saw the violence, heard the language, and knew I erred in my choice of movie rental. I fast-forwarded through the graphic scenes. “Did you enjoy the movie?” I asked my captive audience as the credits ran.
“Yeah,” Hot Wheelz said, “I just didn’t know it was so short.”
Life’s tougher these days. Harder to grow up. And longer than the condensed version of Robocop. Hot Wheelz’ fifteenth year was the toughest. No, sixteenth. No, seventeenth. Right, eighteenth. Okay, teen decade, but then again aren’t they all?
The date — March 13 — a few years back, he had ripped a page from Life’s Little Instruction Calendar. The sheet lays entombed beneath a sheet of glass on my desk. Cherish your children for what they are, not for what you’d like them to be.
I hope Hot Wheelz felt I had succeeded.
Happy birthday, Son. I believe in you. May this be your best year ever.
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- This one’s for you, Mom
- Happy Mums Dag
- Honeymoon mistake
- Entering the world of soccer
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Penny,
I don’t know how you survived raising 4 kids on your own — or for that matter how they survived you! This is a wonderful story. I hope Hot Wheelz had a great birthday!
~Kc