A Tale of Three Boys

I have three boys. I write this not because you do not know it, dear reader ( I am sure you do), but because I know it.
Here are a few snippets of their lives.

Isaac had a friend over the other night, and as we sat around the table having dinner, Isaac came up with a good recycling idea (which I can't remember at the moment. I'll have to ask him about it tomorrow. It's not that important to this story).
"You're good at that," I said.
"What?" he wanted to know.
"Thinking about the environment and how to make it better, change things. You think about that a lot. Maybe you'll be an ecologist one day. I bet they have training for fields like that in the Army."
A little back-story: Isaac came to me about a year ago, sat down at the kitchen table and announced, "I have long term goals."
"Okay, what are they?" I asked slightly shocked, but not very, by this mature conversation he was initiating. He has always been somewhat of an old soul.
"College for four years, graduate, Army for four years, then either play baseball for the Yankees or be the commander of a S.W.A.T. team."
The mom heart in me did not want to think of my 8 year old son as a soldier. He is my first born baby, after all.
"You don't want to go into the Army and fight in wars . . .," I began.
He cut me short.
"Mom, I have a responsibility to my country."
He said it with such conviction that I felt a bit convicted.
"Who told you that?" I asked
Apparently, he had been taking pamphlets about Army recruitment from the mall when we would go, and what I thought was a fascination with the pictures of soldiers and tanks was serious reading material for him.
Later that night, he showed me one of the pamphlets tacked to the bulletin board above his bed.
He didn't say anything. He just pointed.
Back to the other night: "Maybe," he said, thinking about the possibilities of that.
"The Army!" his friend recoiled.
"I wouldn't go in the army. I'm too scared I'd be killed!"
Without hesitation Isaac said with fire in his voice, "Live or die, you have to fight for something!"
Who is this little man?
Someone I am very proud of, I can tell you that.
And though my mother's heart melts within me to hear him talk about living and dying and fighting, I know it is right -- that he is right.
Live or die, you have to fight for something.


Today, I looked up from feeding Daniel to discover Josiah standing on the living room chair in crane position (yeah, you know you've seen The Karate Kid) and just as I was about to administer some stern motherly direction ("Josiah Elijah! Get off the furniture like that right now!") he scrunched up his eyes at some invisible opponent and said calmly, with a deadly edge, "Your Karate is no match for my Kung Fu."
Then he sprang from the couch, a streak of sound and motion, landed on his opponent, and dealt what I can imagine was a fatal roundhouse kick before turning to take on the evil legions lurking behind the fallen enemy.
I sat in stunned silence, the admonishment lying mute on my tongue, never given voice.
He was a vision of grace and strength in that moment, so serious as he leaped through the air, so focused(eat your heart out, Chuck Norris!).
And so, well, adorable. It was all I could do to keep a straight face as I addressed him.
"Where did you come up with that?" I asked.
"The 'your karate is no match. . .' bit?" I added, to be clear.
He stuck his finger into his hair, "My own head" he retorted.
He smiled a big grin right into my face and than turned with deadly intentions to the bad guys waiting to get walloped who I had so rudely interrupted.
I wanted to scoop him up right then and lavish him with kisses and hugs.
But he was busy fighting bad guys.
I did get some good shots, though.



Today, Daniel was crawling all over the house.
It was rainy, but very warm and humid and I had the front door open.
Daniel loves outside.
He crawled over to the door and looked outside for a long time, watching the cars swish over the wet pavement, the birds bathing in puddles in the driveway, the squirrels scamper and scrape over the mud and into the trees.
After a bit, he began pushing at the door, as though he could open it and go for a stroll outside.
"And where do you think you're off to?" I asked.
He looked at me and pressed his face to the glass, longing to be "out there."
Watching him-- pushing at the glass, grunting, hoping the door would budge, his legs would carry him with such raw hope -- I thought of a song from my all-time favorite musical, Into the Woods:

Don't you know what's out there in the world?
Someone has to shield you from the world.
Stay with me.

Princes[ses] wait there in the world, it's true.
Princes[ses], yes, but wolves and humans, too.
Stay at home.
I am home.

Who out there could love you more than I?
What out there that I cannot supply?
Stay with me.

Stay with me,
The world is dark and wild.
Stay a child while you can be a child.
With me.

But he will not . . .he will go into the wide world one day. They all will. And pieces of my heart will go with them.