For Spencer



our wind-blown wagon ride back from the pumpkin patch last month

 

Yesterday you ran from your room, clad in underwear only, to find and ask me a pressing question: "Mom, is In-do-nee-jsh-a in this world??"

I affirmed that Indonesia is, indeed, a real country, and promised to show you on your map after you finished getting dressed.  You promptly raced back to your room, leaving me to simply smile and shake my head.

You're constantly curious, enthusiastic always (unless we're at church, or cleaning up, at which times you melt into lethargy), and most of all, you are so delightfully straightforward.  Like when you hollered a moment ago from the living room,  "Mom!  I throwed the ball and it's in the light, but I'm sorry!" 

Or like the other morning when, after snuggling quietly on my lap for several minutes, you looked up at me and said, "Well, wha-cha waitin' for?!  Let's get cookin'!" 

I love playing games on the carpet with you.  You're often my opponent, but on Sunday afternoons we're teammates against Lucy for Go Fish and Sleeping Queens and all of the other current favorites.  I try to take everything as seriously as you do, but always end up cracking with laughter.  At which point you lean over and give me a whisper lecture, "Mom!  It's the middle of the game!" 

Sorry, Spence.  It's just that your attempted poker face while scrutinizing the Guess Who game board is more than I can handle.

You're growing up. 
That's all there is to it. 

I packed away your shorts for the winter and the next morning you came into my room with your most "frust-rated" face, wondering where they were.  We talked about winter weather and winter clothes and you went back into your room somewhat pacified, only to return several minutes later with renewed protests,  "But I don't look so much handsome in long pants!" 

I finally convinced you, and you've been mostly content in your jeans ever since.  But yesterday morning you were sure your church slacks were too long.  I tried appeasing you by rolling the hem.  No.  I tried turning down the waist band.  No.  "Oh, Honey,"  I said (desperate to gather supplies for my pending RS lesson and to combat my own too long hair), "Your pants aren't too long!  They're perfect!!  Dad's pants were always just like that."  You stopped your tantrum short and scrutinized me to determine my sincerity.  I nodded eagerly,  "Dad really liked his pants to cover up his socks!" 

And that was all it took.  The older you get, the more I'm aware that you idealize your father.  Which both warms and breaks my heart.

A few weeks ago I woke up in the middle of the night to the quiet sounds of your stifled, sincere sobs.  Concerned, I immediately pulled you close and asked what was wrong. "But I love Dad and Heavenly Father!" you managed to articulate as you buried your head into me.  My tears mingled with yours as I held and tried to comfort you.  

Those were the first tears of grief I've seen you cry.  Another afternoon this month, you approached me and told me sincerely that you felt "a little sad."  Unaware of any prompt, I asked what had happened.  You looked up at me with pleading eyes and asked,  "Can you sing Dad's favorite songs to me so I will always remember Dad?"

Our conversations about Wes aren't always emotional.  There were no tears the other evening at Grandma's when you said the evening prayer and asked Heavenly Father to "please send Dad back to earth this day." 

And you were unemotional and as straightforward as ever last week when your sweet little preschool friend asked, "Do you miss your dad who died?"  You thought for a moment and answered with a shrug of your shoulders, "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't."

I thought that was a healthy response.  And I want you to know that when I held your sad little self in the middle of that above mentioned night, when I felt you sob with love and longing for your daddy and your Heavenly Father, I was overwhelmed with the assurance that your love is returned by them both, a thousand fold and more.  And that they are as proud of you as I am. 

I know that in spite of my muddled mothering, you'll somehow grow up to be like them.  And truly, you want to be a dad.  You can't wait to be a dad.  You talk about it every day, and two nights ago you informed me that you'll have ten boys and two girls. 

Perfect, I said.
(And if you keep up your engineering, you might just be able to provide for them all!)