My Boy

These days when a couple is expecting a baby they generally have the opportunity to find out the child’s gender prior to the day of delivery.  Back in the day when my last child was born, ultrasound technology was not quite so accurate but just the same, to have an image of the child growing inside of me was still very exciting.  The resolution wasn’t good but the photo I got to take home with me clearly showed the top of a head and I proudly showed it to anyone who cared to see it.

In those days, with no clinical manner of determining gender, there were many unscientific ways of prediction.  One of the OB’s in the practice attending me swore that he could tell whether a baby was a boy or girl simply by the speed of the heartbeat.  His colleagues teased that he was consistently incorrect 100% of the time so whatever he told you, you could pretty much count on the opposite.  There were also tests involving pencils, string and a needle and one the involved mixing urine with Drano and some people claimed you could tell the gender by the size and shape of the baby bump; high and wide meant a girl, basketball shape out front meant a boy.  And so, it wasn’t until my second baby was born thirty-four years ago today and I heard the words, “It’s a boy!”, that I learned I was to be the mother of a son.

Even if an ultrasound could have determined that Andy was a boy before he was born, there was nothing it could have done to have predicted what an incredible impact he would have upon my life.  He was a cuddly baby, full of hugs and smiles.  I often caught him flirting with other women while perched in a shopping carts while we were in stores.  Maggie kept him amused and could make him laugh like nobody else.

Gifted with a razor-sharp mind and intellect, Andy kept me on my toes and at the edge of my composure most of the time until his chronological age caught up with his ability to reason.  Having an adult intellect in a child’s body is a frustrating thing.  In every argument he was always at least one step ahead of me and he never readily accepted, “Because I said so,” as gospel.   Because Dave’s Naval career kept him out of the picture so much of the time, I was pretty much on my own  fumbling my way through parenting him.  Looking back I sometimes wonder if I’d been a bit more mature at the time, life might have been easier but the struggle of growing up together brought us very close and today I wouldn’t trade that anything.

On paper, Andy has achieved many things parents could brag about and sometimes, like now,  I do.  But what makes me the proudest of him is the kind, caring man he has grown into.

Over the years our “Andy” morphed into “Andrew” to the world and at thirty-four is off on his own, as he should be.  But there are times, especially when I see young families, that I wish I could roll back the years just for a few moments and feel his chubby little fingers around my neck, giving me a hug.  He is my precious boy, my son.  Happy Birthday Honey!