HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KING
It is the King’s birthday today, THE one and only King of
course (Elvis, it’s time to pass the torch, no?). It’s hard to believe that
three years ago today after 36 hours of labor, his royal highness decided
to make an appearance. Trust me, it’s all true what they say, you have very
little memory of the day itself aside from the fact that you know it hurt (in
theory, but it’s quite hard to access that level of pain), there were far too
many drugs administered (natural, shmatural, I was in pain), and this creature
was handed to me in one of the more surreal profound moments of my life. Of
course I then forgot that I had to feed and change him within the first 24
hours, but hey, parenting is a learning curve.
The funny thing is, for me anyway, parenthood often feels
like the longest most exhausting march of your life (I’m not the parent that
will protest it’s all fluffy bunnies and rainbows, and I can admit it), and
yet, you can’t figure out where the time went. Or you have an idea, as
negotiating with kids can take an awful long time – ‘red shirt, no blue shirt,
no red shirt, no blue shirt, no red shirt….I want the green shirt!!!’ But as
life would have it, despite the sleep loss and the gray hair and the days you literally
contemplate placing them up for sale on Ebay, it dawns you as soon as they are
out of your presence for an ample amount of time (let’s be honest, the first
few hours feel pretty nice), you miss the hell out of them and you remark that
life without them would not only be all too quiet, but pretty darn dull.
Honestly, what did I do with all my free time before? Not to mention,
you also realize that in these little bodies there is so much life force, for
lack of a better way to describe it, that it is hard to wrap one’s head around
it. And when I say life force, I mean sheer manic enthusiastic curious wonder
and engorgement on all that the world has to offer. Trust me, by adulthood,
this has faded (sadly) and to witness it firsthand is a marvelloous thing.
The other thing that one can’t help but notice from kids is
not only how much you’re teaching them (or so you hope), but that old gem of a
cliché of how much they are teaching you. For starters, the King has taught me
how much patience I do NOT have. These powerful little suckers test you in ways
you never thought imaginable and truly show you who you are, and the areas you
need some definite improving upon. They also force you to reflect on how you
were raised (and demand you call your mother and say thank you for all those sleepless
nights) not to mention, show you how every terrifying decision can leave an
affect of some sort (I so understand parents who drink). The other thing the
last three years has taught me is not only how much I do not know in a
knowledge capacity (my husband finds it hysterical and disturbing when I answer
one of the King’s million questions in a vague or incorrect manner as he is Mr.
Precise), but how much I’m set to learn. I mean, I never thought I’d know as
much as I do now about cars, construction sites or the solar system (inner and
outer, folks) and I’m thinking that’s going to grow exponentially with the King.
Who knows, maybe one day I’ll even be good at math!
So King, happy birthday and thank you; thank you for being
the kid that is always smiling (although my father said this of me and then
would remark it was a sure sign that I was up to something) with exception to
when you’re flat out on the floor demanding food or striped underwear. Thank
you for teaching me that life is so much easier when you laugh your way through
it – although I often fail at this. Thank you for cracking me up when you ask
women wearing burkas where their mouths are, or when you scream Sumo and run
across the room and throw your full body weight onto me (thanks honey for
teaching him this game). Thank you for singing in bed for 30 minutes where you
reinterpret every childhood song and create the most hysterical mash-ups I’ve
ever heard (‘Old Podonal’, as he calls it instead of Old McDonald, usually ends
up on a bus with a twinkling star while window wipers are swishing over crying
babies who are up in the sky); thank you for that smirk you wear when you ask
for cheese after inhaling half the kitchen when you know I’m not going to cave,
but you try batting your eyelashes anyway, all in the name of dairy. Thank you
for your keen dress sense and your need to take three bags out of the house
with you at all times. Thank you for being your robust, ample-thighed, high
octane adorable self that screams Vamos at the TV when the tennis is on. And
thank you for demanding I hold your hand every single night when you take that long
deep breath that I taught you and fall asleep. And for the first time in 12
hours, you are quiet, actually quiet and I can drink in your cuteness (and for
an insomniac, watching some snore after four minutes is an awe inspiring thing).
I mean seriously, are not kids the best when they are asleep?
In short, it’s been a pleasure to serve you my sweet little
King…now go pick up your cars, stop stuffing them in the couch pillows, and no
more cheese!
