Mothers Day and my becoming a mother coincided on this day, 34 years ago. On a sunny Sunday morning, after a furious, rain swept night, face up and looking around, there emerged a little human we named for his Grandpaw.
Those eyes have been open and searching every minute of every day, from that first May 8th until now. Ever curious, he hated going to sleep. He couldn't let go of the day, afraid that something might happen and he'd miss it. He invented FOMO.
He's not an experimenter, my son. Never was and, perhaps, never may be. He watches and observes and, when he's understands it, he moves. He never toddled; he ran.
He skipped picture books and went straight to Edgar Rice Burroughs. TBG left for a business trip in the middle of Princess of Mars and I was reading my own novel; there was nothing to do but read it himself. No pictures, elegant language, tiny print.... none of it mattered, none of it except what happened to Dejah Thoris.
He hasn't been without a book since. One year he gave away his table and desk; his birthday present was the delivery of enough bookshelves to fill the space they left.
He's also never without an opinion. He enjoys his own company and that of anyone who can support a coherent argument, who will play a board game, who will eat a pizza or drink an interesting beer while watching the Warriors.
With insouciant humor, he's forgiven the imminent tardy-arrival-due-to-my-negligence of his birthday socks, but his expiation can't obviate my maternal guilt. And so, to my boy who loves verbiage, I gift this post, all 290 words of it, with love, as a more timely birthday gift.