Child Ode: Part Two, Or Better Than The Pictures I Was Too Busy To Take

The GFYO (who will be the GFiveYO on Sunday) asked me at noon, as the brightest sun of the day made me squint through my sunglasses, if it "was raining or farting." He asked me a few noons ago if motorcycles can laugh. He asks how his brain works, what pigs are made from, and constantly, what tomorrow means: is it the day I wake up, he asks, or the day after that? He leaves me stumped and speechless at least once every day.

He calls the new President "Arockabama" (one word) and when blamed for something, replies that he "amn't" and when asked why, he says "acause." He used to ask for "nilky;" now he just says milk. Soon enough, all his funny diction will go away, but I think he will always be a kid who generally speaks the first thought on his mind, who will ponder things like tomorrows and pigs and other Big Questions. He is a philosopher and a comedian, a scientist with a clown nose on, a rock star playing a ukulele.  

He is lazy. If I want some quiet, I need only ask him to pick something up: he runs to the farthest point and hunkers down until I forget my request. He relies on his sisters and me and seems unmoved when we celebrate his independence: his rewards come more when we howl at his jokes or give him the conch shell at the dinner table. He likes the spotlight -- standing on the coffee table, dancing for us all -- but he could stay inside this house with me for days and days and want for nothing. 

He has always been a terrifying riddle to me (me of three daughters, mother to two) from the moment they asked if I wanted to "snip" him through every pork chop and match box car he has given animated voice to and on through every made up super-hero or ninja he embodies and the epic battles he plays out, alone, every day, in the house, rolling on the floor or sliding and crashing through his dramatic play, making gun noises and sword noises, everything with a soundtrack. He, who has never hit or bit or kicked another kid at school, he who pets my cheek when I tuck him in, he who kisses his sisters busted knees: He, the Destroyer and Defender of the Universe, the Baddest Good Guy Ever.

He calls letters numbers; he dumps yogurt on the couch; he spits for fun; he uses more toilet paper than anyone I have ever known.  He never stays in his bed when told to; he hates showers but loves baths but hates shampoo; he thinks he can swim and ride a bike and ski but he can do none of those things. He holds my hand, when they aren't coolishly in his pockets like a dude would do, and he once called me his "precious girl" after I put a movie on for him. He likes the song "Single Girls" but not the dance. He wants to know if motorcycles smile and he wants me to get him water when he can very well do it himself and he wants to tell me knock knock jokes that involve the word "poop" and really not much more funny than that: just, you know, poop.

He makes no sense most of the time, no literal actual sense, yet every thing about him seems familiar now: his boyness, his dudedom, his sweaty sweet smell when he crawls into our bed at 3am -- it all seems so obvious. Like he was less of a surprise then I always considered him to be, that he was everything I needed I didn't know I needed, that he is a blast of yin to my very grateful yang. That he is the Boy in the house, the GFYO, the last of my firsts as my friend says; that he is here now (slash! crash! kazoom!), that he is: He.