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“Mama, why do they call it Burger King?”

“Well, because they think their burgers are the best, like the king of all burgers.”

“But that’s not true…McDonalds has really good chicken nuggets and fries too, even though they’re not healthy – they have apples that are. And their burgers are the very best! So it shouldn’t be called Burger King…it should be called MCDONALD KING!”

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He’s five, and he loves to answer the home phone when it rings. Let me preface this by clarifying that we only have a home phone for the emergency purpose of calling out. Anyone calling in is either a friend or family member who is unable to reach us via our cell phones or, more likely, a sales or marketing call. Annoying. So, I let them (the three and five-year-old) answer the phone because they race for it when it rings. I sometimes feel sorry for the telemarketers…psych! I don’t really.

The influences of his family and household were clearly affecting the way this morning’s incoming call went:

Ring! Ring!

Little feet racing toward telephone (D’Lo won)

“Bonjour.” (influence of French-loving sister)

“Bonjour!” he repeated (sounds more like bon-joy coming out of his mouth, probably confused the guy)

“What do you want?” (influence of Daddy who hates telemarketing calls)

“I’m sorry, George, can you repeat that?” (influence of Mommy, who has some level of phone etiquette)

“I can’t hear you, George, so you need to repeat that…or shut up.” (influence of the sum of the teenagers he lives with)

“OK, goodbye.” (influence of the scowl on my face as I rushed toward him to grab that phone)

Click. Poor George, heehee.

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I loved him and I miss him. So much. His laughter was infectious, his smile enormous – seemed like endless rows of baby teeth. He was such a little man-man…all boy. Rough and tumble, obnoxious, mischievous, sneaky, active – but still such a little lover. He was a true mama’s boy.

I watched a home movie some time ago, and I heard him crying. I had forgotten what that sounded like – his particular cry. The way he would call for me, needing me, knowing that I would make it better. My heart dropped…hearing that distress, listening to him calling me. I felt this panic. I needed to get to him. Every cell within me was desperate to be with him…but I couldn’t. He is no longer here.

I do mourn his absence sometimes, I can’t deny that. And as difficult as it is at those times to see the remnants of him in the man who stands where he used to – I can still find him there. I see him in those big brown eyes and dimples. I smell him in that same spot on the crown of his head that I have always loved to smell and kiss at the same time. I hear him when he’s not looking for Mom, but calling instead for Mama. I feel him, although I can’t get as much of my arms around him now, when I close my eyes and give a sweet embrace. There he is…still here.

He has been replaced by some six-foot tall, deep-voiced, muscular, high school senior. He is still obnoxious and his laugh is still contagious so not everything has changed. Tonight though, on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, I wish I could hold my first-born baby just one more time. To rock him to a toddler dreamland, to walk him into his kindergarten class, to wake up and find him cuddled up next to me, to be able to take away all his hurts with a single mama kiss…just one more time. Hmmmm.

I know this has been the plight of mothers for centuries – watching their sons become men. I just didn’t know that while I merely blinked, a little boy would morph into someone his daddy’s size. I will be okay though…how could I not be when what I have now is equally as phenomenal as what I had then?

Happy eighteenth birthday, my precious first-born child. No matter what size you are…I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living – my baby you’ll be.

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He’s been very inquisitive (what’s new?) about life and death lately – especially as they pertain to God and Heaven. During this last installment of The Bible, even though he seemed busily distracted with play in the other room, he managed to pick up some very key concepts. He does that you know – he absorbs details you didn’t even know he was paying attention to. He particularly picked up on Heaven being paradise, and paradise being Heaven. And so, paradise is his new word.

He was playing with his cousins the other day, as cousins do. You know that “pretend I’m the mom and you’re my kid and…” type of play? I heard them all agree that they wanted to play something else – to which I heard D’Lo respond:

“Ok! Ok! Pretend I’m a man and I’m going to paradise, but I’m going to be gone a very long time soooo….I need to go pack!”

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I went into labor on my due date – a first for me, as my first two wanted to just stay in the womb. Once I had contacted the troops (that would be the army of women in my family who just love to help welcome a new member into the world) and then convinced them that I really was in labor, since we were heading into April Fool’s Day, we grabbed our packed bags and headed to the hospital to meet our second daughter. My contractions were strong, but irregular. My options were to head home and wait for them to synchronize – or stay and walk the hospital halls and get them to fall into a pattern. I opted for the latter and, accompanied by a literal herd of excited and protective women, got to steppin’!

Upon moving from Labor and Delivery, through several other maze-like hallways, and down to the cafeteria area – my mood changed from anxious to somber. Not because of the excruciating pain (you other mamas know what I’m talking about)…but because I saw her. Her. Another mother. She was also surrounded by her own herd of protective people – some family, some friends. She was also waiting on her child…but not for his entrance into the world. I recognized her from the news – and my youngest sister went to school with her son. Her child…she wasn’t waiting to welcome him. She was waiting to let him go. My heart dropped when I saw her…and it began to beat rapidly when I realized that she had also seen me.

It was such a painfully poetic moment – I felt it was for her as well, as our eyes locked for just the mere moment that our lives were destined to intersect. Destined…like my Destiny. The little life in my womb. There I was, robust with new life and for just that moment I was so tragically aware of how my blessing must have just scratched out the heart of this other mother. We were both preparing – her, to let her child go to home to God and me, about to recieve my child from Him.

And so, over the span of just a few hours…we both did so. This other mother let her child, who had been attacked at a house party and was only clinging to life through the machinery that was keeping his body working…she let him go, she bore down through the worst emotional pain I can imagine and she said a final goodbye. I bore down through some of the worst physical pain imaginable, however, and I brought my child into the world…I cried through sweat and fatigue and said my first hello.

I will never forget that experience. I have given birth five times…but it was with my middle child that I was the most aware of the gift of life. Life. So precious. Like a newborn baby being held in the arms of loving parents. Life. So fragile. Like a teenage boy being taken off of life support and welcomed into the loving arms of his Heavenly Father. Life. A precious and fragile gift.

She is fourteen now. He has been gone fourteen years now. I wonder if they met each other as their souls crossed, in different directions. That’s how I’ve always imagined it anyway.

She is lovely, funny, witty, and beautiful on the inside and out. I am so proud of her. I hope I never take a day of her life for granted. Thank You, Father, for the gift of her. I pray You keep her safe…always.

Happy fourteenth birthday, my Angel. I love you.