My son, George is four years old.
He is small and slim.
He looks fragile – huge brown eyes floating over a wisp of a body.
Tiny shoulders. Pale skin you can almost see through.
In his raggedy, end of season too short pants, he looks like he just walked out of a production of Oliver. Blow some soot on his elfin face for instant street urchin.
He’s scrappy like those pickpockets too. Grabby and squabbley. And LOUD. His voice carries.
Just in case you might miss him.
His looks deceive.
When he was born – the first of two babies in two minutes – he was red and screaming. Skinny legs kicking – a precursor to stamping tantrums that weren’t left behind in the terrible two’s.
But sometimes I think the rages are an expression of the just too muchness inside of him. He’s too big for his little body. You can see it in his eyes.
And for every frustrated outburst there is an equally spectacular explosion of enthusiasm.
Gathering acorns! Making a pile of rocks! The collections never end.
Money! I found money! My bright shiny penny.
My good luck charm.
Things happen around George. Of his making or not – he’s the Pied Piper of events. The ones that become stories we like to tell each other.
That time George opened the container of hot pepper spice and burned his face and insisted on wearing big superhero bandaids under his eyes like war paint…that time he walked around the community pool wearing a swim shirt, goggles, water wings AND and an inner tube…that time he told some guy in the men’s room that he forgot to flush… George makes an impression.
He’s always seen. You never miss him.
Because he’s brave.
He has no fear of not fitting in…of not being good at something. He’s that kid who won’t leave. The one who doesn’t ask if he can join in. He assumes his acceptance.
If the big kids are playing Wii, then he will learn how. And he will be just as good at it.
If the big kids are climbing trees, then he will climb too.
He may end up crying for mommy to get him down – but the next day, he’ll follow them back up that tree. He doesn’t give up on what he wants.
He’s a good climber. Always has been.
There is a pole in our basement – one with some support function that eludes me. In my everyday life, it’s a source of bumps and bruises – tears to be kissed away. It’s the origin of loud banging noises that let me know the natives are restless. The percussion section of a preschool rock band.
It’s also a good climbing pole. Or at least it is for George.
Oliver can climb trees – but not poles. And Eleanor isn’t much of a climber. But George shimmies up that pole every day.
He smacks the ceiling with the flat of his little hand and calls out to the ant-like forms of his siblings below. He likes his aerial view. He thinks he belongs at the top.
The other morning George came upstairs to tell me about his climbing.
“I’m a good climber! I climb very high!“
“Yes – I know. I’ve seen you.“
“I’m a good climber because I have brave hands.”
Yes he does. I admire this about him.
He’s brave. Always has been. I’ve seen it every day since I first caught sight of his screaming red face.
He’s brave and he has the hands to prove it. And every day, he holds my heart firmly between them.
I love how you "see" him. I'd like to meet this brave little soul some day!
Awesome post, Kate. Celebrate George!
Your words describe that little guy so very perfectly it's amazing. He is definitely a force to be reckoned with and that will serve him well in life. Great post Kate!
I think your George and my Quinn have some commonalities. Great post!
This brought tears to my eyes. Loved it. Miss you guys! You're going to do GREAT on Friday. Take all the drugs they offer!!!
He sounds awesome. The comparison to Oliver made me laugh.
I love this! And those boys hold our hearts in their hands, for sure.
that is a wonderful, descriptive post. I think I can see your son now. Sounds like a fun little guy.
Your kids are all so cute and unique in their own special ways. I love reading their stories. Someday, they'll love looking back and reading these stories too.
Brave hands. I love that.
I can see his personality in this post. I love it.
oh this gave me the chills.
and those strong hands? will take care of his family even more one day and especially his mom!
xxxx
George is a force to be reckoned with. You cannot help but love him. What a little Braveheart!
Your posts about your children are such perfectly painted descriptions. And the last line made me cry.
God Kate, this is a gorgeous post. Beautifully written, your heart is all over this.