About a Boy

A room full of other mothers and other children, one mother wanders over, our boys would like to say hello. Oh. So sweet.

My son, my beautiful boy with a smile that lights the sun, stands tall, already barrel chested, his legs firm, spread in a dominant posture, he sweeps his arms open and in a breath lunges at this other child, nearly taking his head clear off, then begins shaking the child as if it were his prey that needs to be subdued, smothered into submission.

I am horrified.

I apologize profusely.

Two grown adult women attempt to pry my son's arms apart to free the other child; my son responds by girding against us, he pouts his lips, frowns in concentration and begins kneading the other child's eyes, squealing in delight, a primitive announcement of victory.

The other boy barely blinks and waits the blows out and the boys mother says, nonchalantly, "Oh, he has an older brother. He's used to it".

I am deeply embarrassed and uncertain where to go from here, do I continue apologizing? Do I offer to pay the medical bills to restore the other child's sight? Maybe, I should scrape the flesh and blood from under my boys fingernails and hand them over, mumbling something about gangrene? Maybe a fruit basket from the Martha Stewart Collection?

Then from the dark precipice of motherhood, unbelievably, a chubby paw extends and the other child reaches out and draws my bear of a boy in for a hug.

In a moment, I'm grateful for big brothers who clobber their siblings and my beautiful boy who humors me and my soft kisses and loving nuzzles, at other times out right laughing at me when I disentangle my curls from his clenched fists.

He's the son every father draws for himself, a big strapping lad with testosterone strewn about and manhood proven in brute strength; I ordered a more refined dish but,I am thrilled with what showed up.