Have you ever noticed that you don’t have to actually hand them a play gun, because everything–EVERYTHING magically has the ability to become one? Rakes…tripods…cd cases…balloons…bread.
In their mind, every inanimate object within their reach, has the innate ability to maim. This is a skill that only boys have–or, I might add, want.
Of course, this skill puts everyone in their rifle scope every waking moment. We wouldn’t want to waste precious practice time, would we? Consequently, no one is safe.
In fact, I remember helping 3 year old Daney boy get dressed one day and his little thumb-and-finger-gun kept being loaded and fired too dang close to my head for me to like it.
Finally, after having my ears and chin and both eyes taken out by Hop-along’s imaginary bullets and a bit weary of his gun hand waving in my face, I held on to his arm and said, “Hey! You know, it isn’t very nice for boys to shoot at their mommas.”
His eyes immediately filled up with tears and he collapsed in a heap in front of me.
“I wasn’t shooting my momma.” Oh, he was wailing now.
“Reeeeally?” I said.
And I’m Mother Goose.
He pulled himself up and wiped at his nose with his sweatshirt sleeve. To the washer with that one.
My boy…my other boy, you know the one with a tiny bit more hair than the bald kid—-the far, far away one?
Well, I got to speak to him today. Christmas and Mother’s Day are the four days in two years that we get to actually talk to our missionary boy on the phone. After 25 minutes of trying to make the calling card work and the crowded, Mother’s Day phone lines work, and the crazy land line work–we finally got through.
It was so wonderful to hear his voice. I spoke to him first, because I’m the mom–then everyone else had a turn. As much as I loved talking to him personally, it was easier to relax and enjoy the call by just putting him on speaker phone and listening to everyone else talk to him. Every time it was passed to me, I had to fight–really fight the urge to yell, “What are you doing on the other side of the world?!!”
The good news is that he is well and safe and happy, and while he is still my boy, he says he wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world right now. We talked to him for about an hour until we realized that with it being 9 hours ahead for him–it was well past his bedtime.
He asked if he could say a prayer in Lithuanian for us. It was incredible to hear him speaking so confidently in a language I have never heard. I tried to be brave when he needed to say, “good-bye,” but it was hard.
I console myself by remembering that in less than one month, he will have been gone a year. He is learning and growing and serving and becoming a very wonderful young man. I am so proud of him…but I miss him so much.
No matter how old my children get, I suppose I will never stop counting them, over and over whenever we go somewhere together. It’s a mama bear instinct to make sure they are all here…safe. “One, two, three, four, five….one, two, three, four, five…one, two, three, four…dang it.”
This is good. This is right.
This is tough stuff for the wuss mom of the year.
I’m working on it–and it is getting better.
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