Sometimes it's hard to believe that Spawnling originated from two lines on a pee stick. What humble beginnings.
(Actually, he originated from something else, but
Like most women today, the first official confirmation I received that I was going to be a mother to my teeny little gremlyos was a home pregnancy test. My reaction to Spawnling's impending arrival, however, was a little different than how I reacted the first two times. I wasn't immediately... thrilled. Delighted. Overjoyed.
In fact, I may have been a teeny bit apprehensive.
We had decided, for so many reasons, that two was enough. When Gutsy was three we decided we weren't going to try to have more children, nor were we going to throw caution to the wind any longer and 'just see what happens'. We began wrapping the willy; putting a lid on the mayo jar; caging the monkey; enabling the cloaking device. And words escaped our lips that had never been said before. Things like: 'complete family' and 'the next phase in our lives' and 'permanent birth control'.
The universe, however, had other plans. Because, just before we started shrink wrapping the leftovers again, I got pregnant. And as I scrutinized those two blue lines under every available light source in my home, I realized something: I was pregnant. Without trying. And it was a girl!
...And our girl had a penis, the ultrasound technician told us a few weeks later, trying so hard not to laugh.
But Geekster and I laughed, because of course it couldn't be a girl. That would disrupt the comfortable cycle of chaos in our family brought on by an abundance of testosterone.
But a thought occurred to me, although I wouldn't admit it at the time: Would a third boy be that, well, interesting? We had two already. Been there, done that, got the pee on the t-shirt while trying to change newborn baby boy diapers. He'd have to be pretty gosh darn spectacular to stand out. A girl would just have to be a girl, really. Dresses, pink things, dolls that are used as dolls and not beheaded zombies. I rubbed my Spawnling-stretched belly and wondered what kind of boy child he would be.
And then we got this:
I would never, ever trade him for a girl. Ever.
He talks to pumpkins when he's sad. He helps his friend Diego the cat muddle through a gender identity crisis. He sings 'Danger Zone' every time he makes two things have a race.
When he calls someone stupid, even an old lady who says "hi" when he's having a bad day, he says it in such a way that even she tries to stifle a laugh as I stifle mine and make him apologize.
He has names for all his shoes and is very insistent on which ones he's going to wear on a particular day. One must have footwear that matches ones' outfit, you know. Cars Shoes will not go with khakis; that's best left to Big, Big, Green Shoes.
He loves his brothers more than anyone except maybe Dad, and even more than me now that he's no longer enjoying 'Mommy's Milk'.
Traitor.
Ok, maybe not more than me. He's just forming stronger relationships with others now that I don't have the nutritional advantage. The successful and mutual weaning process about six months ago put an end to the baby years in this house. We're now onto the big kid stuff.
Well, except potty training, which is supposed to start happening today, right after his first in-theater movie: Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. Let's see if he stays still once the popcorn is all gone. These 'first' experiences are always unpredictable in that this-could-be-a-wasted-$60 kind of way.
It's funny how, once I held Intrepid in my arms, I couldn't imagine loving anyone else that much. Then, once Gutsy was born, my heart grew to twice the size. When Spawnling came along and threw what we thought was our perfect little world upside down, my heart grew so big that I thought they were going to have to remove ribs like they do to some of the top runway models.
Me and top runway models: We're similar in so many ways.
I honestly can't picture life without him. And, two months ago, when he was in that hospital bed with a then mystery illness that had everyone very concerned, I remembered the pregnancy test and how I wasn't immediately thrilled. I remember selfishly hoping for a girl and feeling concerned he might not thrill me in the same way. And, touching his sickly little body, I remembered how wrong I had been, and that life had only changed for the better with him in our lives. He is the glossy finish that coats our family and makes it shiny and strong and beautiful. He solidified what we already had before he came along. He made it complete.
Actually, he's kind of like the MSG in our over-processed take-out food, except he doesn't give anyone headaches or scare pregnant women.
Today is Canadian Thanksgiving, and it's also Spawnling's third birthday. We have so much to be grateful for. We don't even have to try hard to find the good stuff this year. He's our little, rambunctious cheat sheet.
Happy birthday, my sweet little guy. Words can't possibly express how much I love you.
(And if you make this potty training thing easy on me, I'll love you and give you jelly beans. Just sayin'.)
