Close your eyes and imagine
11 Sep 2010 Leave a Comment
Close your eyes…
Imagine a baby boy, a shock of fair hair, big brown eyes. He has chubby cheeks but the rest of his physique appears more muscular that fatty. He’s long and lean. He doesn’t do the baby gas smile, he smirks – one side of his mouth lifts, and his little nose wrinkles.
Now imagine a five year old boy, his eyes are still big and brown, his fair hair is lightly streaked with mousy brown highlights. It’s always haphazard, all over the place, because he won’t let me comb it. He’s quick as a whip, still smirking that evil little smile, made all the cuter by the one missing tooth, that shouldn’t be missing just yet, but he took a nasty fall on the sidewalk, knock the incisor right out of his mouth.
He’s very mischievous – using his intellect to pull the most incredible pranks. They’re always humorous, but I try not to let him get away with too much. He’s reading as much if not more than I did at his age, causing problems in class by correcting his teachers’ grammar. I’m grateful that they encourage his intellect, rather than suppress it.
Now, imagine a ten year old, his hair is chestnut colored, still highlighted with blonde, and speck of red, he’s wearing glasses now. Despite his borderline genius IQ, (and even that is a matter of less than ten marks) he’s rather popular amongst his peers. His cleverness makes him brilliant, witty, hilarious, and when he’s in a mood, he can be quite devious. He’s read Tolkien, Alcott, the younger Hiaasen novels all within the last year. His teachers want to push him forward, but he’s unwilling to leave his friends. I don’t want to push him into something that will make him miserable, but I don’t want him to miss out on opportunities that could greatly advance his academic career.
Now you see a twelve year old, his hair finally behaving, I’m letting him use my weirdo hair balm from the last time I sheared my hair. He’s attempting spikes. Apparently it’s not the most popular look, but foux hawks, and neon hair dye is out of the question. (Gods forbid punk ever returns.) He’s starting high school, he’s still working below his intellect, but I want him to be a kid while he can. He’s cut back on his pranks, his new school doesn’t tolerate hijinks. He’s worried about keeping up and fitting in. I tell him not to worry about fitting in, he’s got the social skill and brilliance to make a group of close knit friends. As for keeping up, I tell him to do his best, the rest will follow. He rolls his eyes and gives me his characteristic smirk.
Thirteen years old, the dreams usually end around here, Wyatt’s started wearing contacts, I miss his glasses – but he insists that they are more of a hinderance than a help. We’ve discovered he too has a gift for writing, but he wants to go into sciences, not literature. He hasn’t chosen medicine as his field, but he’d like to research physics and technologies. He’s got the brains for invention, I’m sure he’d go far. He’s interested in girls now, and the girls are interested in him. I don’t know what makes me more uncomfortable. He’s still too young to be going out on dates, and hanging out without parental supervision – when I tell him this he becomes very angry and tells me he hates me. Given my fears from before his birth, this affects me painfully. I whisk away quietly and cry for a while before he comes back with apologies and tears himself. Our relationship isn’t perfect, but it’s not bad in any sense. We’re friends, but we’re always mother and son first. We learn from each other…
They’re only dreams, I know – but I’ve been trapped in them for two weeks and this little boy is on my mind a lot. Something is telling me to face my fears. The thought of it still gives me a panic attack. I still fear some latent psychoses could take me over. I know I’ve got enough disorders as it is, anything could lay just beneath the surface. I don’t want my son to hate me. But teenagers will do that. There isn’t one who doesn’t.
I’ve grown fond of the little deviant genius, with his evil smirk and big brown eyes. His hugs make me happy, his laugh is infectious, and I love him.
Open your eyes…
I’m screwed – aren’t I?
