Three

Ten years ago, when my redheaded, delicious nephew was three, I was known to say “If I knew I’d get a kid like him, I’d be pregnant tomorrow.”

Which wasn’t really true. At the time, I wasn’t even going to get married, never mind procreate. Ever. Before I learned indiscriminately that life has a way of making a liar out of you.

Today, I have that kid. Today, he turned three. Sometimes I watch him and I can’t believe I got so lucky. My boy.

Right now, as I type on the couch with a laptop, he’s sitting leaning up against me. “Mommy? What you doing?” He’s my snuggler, the one who loves his mom. My daughter loves me too, but with him it’s like this: one night, he made a midnight trip to the potty. Not unusual – he’s a champion in potty training. What was unusual was that he was crying. I turned the dimmer light on and knelt down beside him. “What do you need?” I asked him.

He sniffed and held out his arms. “Hugs.”

A year and a half ago, when he was 18 months old, we were told by a (for-profit) speech therapist in Texas that he was operating at a ten-month level in terms of oral communication. She recommended weekly visits at her center — three hours from here — if he had any hope of ever catching up to a normal level. Half of me was crushed and terrified, the other half knew she was full of shit. Luckily we left on a cruise the next morning, so I had four days with the extended family--time enough for the latter to crystallize.

Two days ago, my boy had his very last appointment with Miss Tara, his speech therapist from the state-sponsored, grant-supported child development center here in Kansas. All free. Today, he no longer qualifies for therapy. He talks like a normal three-year-old. Like my three-year-old.


He’s got his Daddy’s body, fit and stocky and muscular, with wide, stubby hands and feet. I want to eat him up or at the very least kiss the birthmark on his lower stomach that I noticed when I held him the day he was born. He was just a few hours old, and I found myself thinking of the woman who would kiss that birthmark someday, and I was jealous of her. I don't want anyone else to have him, ever. He’s a blonde, just like I always wanted to be, just like Cowboy was when he was a boy. He’s got Cowboy’s eye shape – all Cowboy’s aunts marvel at his resemblance to a toddler Cowboy, particularly in the smile.

Boss Girl used to push him around and trick him into doing her bidding, but he’s learned to give as good as he gets, and has become quite adept at manipulating her right back. Or bopping her on the head, as needed.

Since March of this year, his name has been “Boss.” Ironic, I know. But if you ask him his name, that’s what he says as he puffs out his chest: “Boss.”

His mischievous. And he’s funny. He tries to be funny. His facial expressions leave Cowboy and me poking each other and laughing, particularly when he’s on the phone and imitating the expressions he’s seen other people make. He also challenges us through narrowed eyes quite often. In anticipation of Dubya’s recent haircut, Cowboy was lamenting the loss of the shock on his forehead that he so likes to stare through. “Do you think he’ll still give The Look if he doesn’t have his hair to add to the expression?”

We needn't have worried. He still gives The Look.

He’s my boy and my baby, and I for now I'm OK keeping him that way. I should probably send him back to bed when he pads into our room in the middle of the night, but I don’t mind sleeping with him. When he comes in, he’s usually loaded down with all his necessary traveling possessions. First, it was just his binky. Then he started bringing his sippy cup. Then his stuffed moose. Then his monkey. After a while, he added some books. Eventually he must have decided that he wasn’t capable of toting all of his midnight luggage by himself. He’s started loading it into his toy grocery cart. The first time he walked in at 3 AM pushing his loaded cart—all of which must make its way into bed with him—I couldn’t help it. I laughed till I cried.

I’m only a little bit embarrassed to admit that he still uses a binky. Only at night, but I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t come in handy. I could be making excuses – I’m probably making excuses -- but for now, he needs it. On our recent trip to Taos, Cowboy and I left the kids with Grandma and Granddad. The first night, Dubya asked where Mommy was. Grandma explained as gently as possible that Mommy and Daddy were away and wouldn’t be home tonight. Dubya’s eyes got big and with his face about to collapse, he ran over to his overnight bag. He reached in the outside pocket, pulled out his binky, and sucked on it furiously for five seconds. Then he took it out of his mouth and put it back in his bag, and walked forlornly over to Grandma.

He’s heartbreaking ... and he’s gonna be a heartbreaker.

Happy birthday, Dubya. Welcome to three.