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My Sweet Boy

Oh, where have you gone

Billy Boy, Billy Boy

Oh, where have you gone

Charming Billy

I have gone to see my wife

She's the joy of my life

She's a young thing

And cannot leave her mother

This is a song that my mother would sing to my Sweet Billy when he was little. To this day, at age 10, he still loves when I sing him this song.

I was talking to a long-distance friend recently. The subject, of course, came around to my kids (she has none). I got to talking about my son.

I went on and on about all he's been doing, how he's doing in school, what sports he's playing ... and then I found myself going into great depth about how much I love him.

I couldn't stop describing what a wonderful little boy he really is. How special he is to me and how he lights up my life. How he has the cutest ways about him and how he reminds me so much of his father.

When I spoke of him, I could see his sweetness in my mind and feel the gentleness of who he is and I tried desperately to describe all this accurately.

He tries to act tough and disconnected sometimes. Tries to let on to the world that he is fine all of the time. Tries to go along as though he is in control and has no worries. And mostly ... I think this is true.

I love this about him.

But ... I know him. I know the little boy behind all the ball caps, dirty t-shirts and skinned up knees. That little boy behind the constant motion. That little boy that never seems to have the time to stop and show the depth of his emotions.

I love that little boy that is too busy to tell the world how special he really is. The one that is so confident that he just doesn't find it necessary to list his qualities or voice his inner desires or needs. The little boy with the humble heart and kind nature. I love that he seems to know who he is and is not concerned about what the world thinks of him. I love the way he lives his life.

On Christmas Eve, I went into his room to kiss him good night and when I bent over near his face he asked me, in the sweetest and most sincere voice,"Have I been a good boy?"

I loved that he asked this question because it gave me the chance to tell him that he is a good boy and that I couldn't have ever hoped for a more precious son. It was a wonderful moment.

When I think of him now ... I see his sweet little face, soft brown eyes and dark brown hair (what a head of hair). I see his dirty little hands and his skinny legs. I see those teeth that are too big for his smile. I see the smirk he so often gets when he has done something wrong. And I see ... a little boy that brings great joy to my heart, indescribable warmth to my soul and a love so pure that ... I wouldn't know how to live without it.

My son has been into Sharpies lately. Over the summer he begged me to buy bunches of them.

So I did. BIG mistake!

He proceeded, the entire summer, to Sharpie anything and everything he could think of! I'd walk into his room and there was constantly this overwhelming smell of the Sharpies (you know the smell) and him there on the floor, hovered over an old toy or something ... ee,ee,ee,ee (*the sound a Sharpie makes*). I began to worry that he was doing that sniffing or huffing I've heard about and so I would tell him to "Stop already" with all the coloring of everything (entire shoe boxes, small trucks, treads of shoes, bills of ball caps ...). "STOP ALREADY. And ... if you have to do it - open a window or take it outside."

It became a joke in our family and with friends - this strange obsession he had with Sharpies. I'd joke to friends, "Oh ... it's the same refrigerator - we just left The Boy too long alone - WITH A BLACK SHARPIE - in the house."

I swear - he has colored everything!

I think we should have him Sharpie that old Studebaker we have sitting in our driveway (long story - will one day write about that under the category: My husband and his redneck hobbies). Color it black (all of it - ee, ee, ee, ee, ee) - put some bright orange and red flames on the hood and down the sides - insert the SHARPIE logo in scroll writing amidst the flames - send it to the Sharpie company as a commercial for this product - get some money out of this CRAZY obsession.

I try to encourage my children's artistic enthusiasm - I do. But Son ... STOP ALREADY!

On the upside ... He's not coloring as much lately as he was over the summer. Maybe he just had too much time on his hands - ya think?

It was a breezy afternoon. The sun shown brightly and I had taken my umbrella along just in case I was forced to sit in the sun, to shield me from the heat. It was mid-October, yet the unusually hot weather indicated that Fall was taking its time to reach south-central Texas.

I positioned myself on the bottom seat of the ball-field bleachers, next to the other proud mothers, in the shade. I put aside my umbrella and purse and made myself comfortable. I waited patiently on the sidelines for the game to commence. I scribbled notes on my pad, made a few calls, chatted with strangers and waited.

Just as the game was about to begin, my son walked up and stood in front of me. He was adorned in a clean, new uniform. He was just a smidgen of a boy disguised beneath a massive pair of shoulder pads, extremely tight white pants, black cleats, bright purple jersey with the number 15 embossed on the back and a white helmet with a face mask - too big for his head. I knew this because ... it kept sliding forward and he had to keep reaching to push it up so he could see me clearly. Oh yes ... and there was the smile on his face.

He stood real close and I put my hand on his scrawny waist and pulled him to me. We weren't quite eye level, but nearly so.

He said, "Hi Mom," and smiled.

I said, "Hi Hon. I like your new uniform," and then I noticed his large white teeth behind the face mask and wondered to myself if he had brushed them that morning. Then I leaned in as if I would kiss him.

He said, "You can't kiss me now," and giggled. He meant that I couldn't reach his face through the bulky mask.

I said, "Do you want me to?"

He snickered and tried to pull away and said, "Not really."

I knew what he meant, but asked anyway, "Why?"

He leaned in closer to my face and whispered, "Because we're boys and we don't like it when our mama's kiss us."

I said, "Is that right?" feeling a bit sad.

He said, "You do it anyways."

I asked, "Is that alright?" as I reached over and took hold of his hand.

And he just smiled and shook his head.

I watched as he walked away. I wondered if he would look back .. and then he did. I smiled ... and I blew him a kiss.

I thought to myself that this would definitely be one of those moments that my mind would store forever ... never ever forget. This simply special day in the sun.

My precious little boy got an "F" on a science test this past week. Yep ... a BIG OL' "F"!

So ... I plant myself firmly in his path as he walks through the front door after school, position my hands on my hips (trying very hard to ignore how cute he looks with his sweaty hair in his face, tennis shoes untied, dirty t-shirt way too large for his skinny little body, large orange backpack weighing him down ... and that smile that says, "I had a pretty good day") and I say to him, "So ... I saw on Parent Connection (our way here of seeing our kids' grades daily - GREAT TOOL!) that you got an "F" on a science test."

The happy smile fades from his face and the stringy shoulders that were carrying the load of that heavy backpack, fold into a wiry slump as he drops the pack to the floor at his disheveled feet. He looks up at me, past long girl-like eyelashes, begins to shuffle his feet from side to side (like he's speed skating) and then he says, "What test?"

I quickly see him as the "F" boy again (and not the child I adore that I had seen through distorted motherly vision), and say to the child in front of me, "What do you mean, "What test?"?" in a not very I'm-having-a-pretty-good-day, tone.

He continues to speed-skate in front of me, now moving his skinny arms in theatrical rhythm with his busy feet and says, "I dunno what test you're talkin' about," and I see his eyes twitch in a familiar way that indicate he is making a conscience attempt to squirm away from this conversation as quickly as possible.

I say, still blocking his futile efforts to skate past me, "You don't remember taking a test?"

And he says, very seriously, "What's-the-matter-with-an-F-every-now-and-then?" lyrically, like there should have been musical notes attached to the words.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to shake him. I wanted to congratulate him on succeeding at distracting my anger. What I did was ... whip out my "F's-ARE-NOT-ACCEPTABLE-EVER-EVER-EVER!" speech (lasts about 8 minutes) and then ... stepped aside and let him skate away.

On the upside ... he still has an "A" in Science, even with the "F" he got on that test and ... I'm pretty certain I got my point across ... as my speeches are quite well thought out and are soooo effective and appreciated by all of my children ...

IS IT CAN BE HUGS TIEM NOW PLEES?