Honey

He showed it to me while I was on the phone. Opened his hand, and there it was.

"I caught her."

He's almost 10. "She" was a bumblebee.

I thought to wonder why a bee, why his hand. Why holding, and how. But I was on the phone. We are nature people in this house, to the degree that our lifestyles afford it. We like creatures. It was pretty. I figured it was some species he had read about, that he identified as safe.

Later, I called him in from outside. He was sitting by the mailbox. On the ground. Dumbfounded "she stung me! She'll die. It hurts. It itches, too."

I said something like, "what did you think it would do?"

Later, I ribbed him further. Gave him a little grief about the bee, carrying it around like that. That just 'cuz it's furry doesn't make it a pet.

He said, "I found her on some plants at school. I carried her home on my shirt. I thought she was sick. She just stayed there. I talked to her. I told her I was going to make her better, but then she stung me. Now she will die. I killed her."

It was a leap of reasoning, a stumble of guilt.

"I thought, if she was sick, that maybe I couldn't make her better. That maybe she would have to be put out of her misery. And then? It looks like I killed her anyway. They can't live after they lose their stingers. I put her on a rose bush to die."

He sobbed. He lay his head on my lap and sobbed. That big, too-smart, eye-rolling, foot-stomping, put-upon boy broke down.

"Did she have a name?"

"Honey," his voice broke on the "-ney."

I thought of the old lady and the snake, the turtle and the scorpion. Those stories of the wounded and dangerous, made well, only to act out their nature.

He knew she was a bee when he brought her here.

"Maybe she knew, Bass. Maybe she wanted to thank you and offered her the only strong thing she had - the last bit of her 'voice.' She gave you her strength, so she could give up."

"You think so, Mom?"

Yes.

Game 3

OK - so that other post, that football post...that post was, like, four hours ago.

And the kids came home and I fed them hotdogs and we left and I brought bug spray for the coaches - but I was late, so the cheerleaders got it.

And the sky darkened.

And it started to sprinkle. And the tens of people in the stands (on a night threatening rain, on a Thursday night because of high holy days tomorrow, on waterlogged fields.. many just don't come out) huddled closer and brought out umbrellas.

Except I had none. Because I am That Kind of Mom.

And Annabeth stood with the cheerleaders and cheered. And Sebastian ran around with some kids. And Patrick huddled close and asked loud questions, "can they strangle each other in football? Why is that target on the side? What do they get when they finally hit the target?"

And it rained more.

And it became a soaking rain. So I gave Mike-my-husband's-colleague back his umbrella (Mike was in full foul weather gear. AND had the umbrella.) And I gathered up Patrick. And I gathered up Annabeth. And...

...Sebastian was nowhere.

It was as if, in this small stadium, he had *poof* disappeared.

And I wandered and it rained and it poured and it was buckets of rain from the sky and I was, quite literally, soaked.

My two I had huddled under awnings with Beth and Sarah, also colleagues of my husbands, and I looked.

And my looking got frantic and I got wetter. And the there was nothing left to absorb it, so the water rolled off me in rivulets and rivers. And I yelled a little.

And the headmaster's wife Martha looked. And Mike-the-upper-school-head called out and offered to help, too.

And I got a little frantic.

And two facilities guys offered to help.

And then - he was found.

On the far far edge of the dark parking lot in the pouring rain. After 35 minutes of frantic looking. Where he shouldn't have been, out beyond the lights.

And he was chasing a girl. The blue soaked to black and the hair slicked dark. And he was laughing. With other boys and girls (in appropriate weather gear). Chasing. Tossing a ball. Laughing.

And then, whining.

"Really, Mom? I can't stay? Why can't we stay?"

We are cold. We are wet. We are tired. I yelled. I cried a little bitty bit. Maybe out of frustration. Maybe, for a second, I was actually scared.

We are in hot baths now.

And we are also, clearly, part of some sort of community. And that, is in fact, what it's about.

In two weeks is the next home game. I think I'll try again then to figure out the football part.

Seabass

Not quite sure what to do when I flounder.

When I feel like, maybe, I have no idea what I am doing.

This was that sort of day - an epic clash with Sebastian, when he was mean to his siblings in succession, then mean to me.  I got mean back.  He got meaner.  And none was resolved by more of the same.

I know I am supposed to be the 'grown up,' but I can't always remember what that looks like in every situation.  I have never been praised for my measured discipline.

I am so grateful to others who do it right, or do it wrong and know it - and talk about it, and blog about it.  I am so grateful to those who step in - to my mother-in-law, who has him tonight for an impromptu sleepover.  My mom, who knows him so well and talks me through my most frustrating parent moments.  To his Aunt Agatha, who loves him unconditionally and gently guides.  To his favorite teachers, who ask, tell, and nourish.  

Never have I met a child who needed those teachers more.  For whom knowledge, and learning, were actual life-sources - like breathing, or water.  

When he was littler, I would say that he was just too big for his britches.  That he was born a 30-year-old lawyer and it would take time for him to grow into the role.  Now, 9 years later - he's been in practice for 9 years.  So, he thinks he is entitled to the partnership, an equal vote. Compensation fitting his elevated role.   

I burst with pride when a teacher has the chance to recognize who he is, stops and gets him still long enough to catch a glimpse of his very old soul.  He had two of him this year, and they saved us all.

There is nothing he won't read.  No question he won't ask.  No science show he won't watch.  No answer he won't attempt to give, himself.  He is smarter than me, and I have always known that. He is smarter than me, and he has always known that - which is tougher.

He is so sensitive, intuitive, and scary smart.  He is so insensitive, volatile, and impulsive.  He rocks my world, daily. All this at 9.  What will be left of me when he is 11, 17, 35?

Oh, sweet Sammy Butterbean.  My original pain-in-the ass.  The one person who always laughs at my jokes, and sings along to the same songs on the radio.  You taught me to be a Mom.  And I am still learning.