Wildly Inappropriate

I remember gazing into his big, dark blue eyes in the hospital bed, and thinking wow, how did I get so lucky?! And weeks later, cuddling up to the cutest duckie pajama-clad bundle as he cooed and kicked happily, thinking he was the most perfect, joyful little gift I could ever receive.

At around two, he would be engrossed in play, but he would frequently drop everything and run to me...well, charge at me like a bull, to fiercely grab my leg and squeeze me into a hug. Those tiny "I love you, Mommy"s are priceless, aren't they?

At three, we got a taste of his personality, destined for mischief. He found a bottle of baby powder, and not only redecorated the bedroom with its contents, but also covered every inch of himself, save for those blue eyes. "I stink!" he proclaimed, reeking in this exorbitant amount of newborn baby-smelling stuff, similar to an old woman bathed in Jean Nate'.

At five, he demanded we remove his training wheels. The air of cool confidence in his voice, and unwavering certainty when we told him, "once they are off, they aren't going back on" made me smile. He knew he would do it, and his determination proved him right. He rode on two wheels that very day, and now does it at lighting-speed, God help me.

Although I'm sure I read, back in my days of baby name books, that Isaac means "laughter," it is impossible, as a mother, to know if a name will really fit until your child is a little older. You pick out a name, and you hope it works. Ultimately, it's the name you like best, after several disagreements with your spouse, ruling out things like "Finn, Phoenix, and Calvin." Or at least that's what happened in my case.

Isaac means "laughter." Ain't that the truth?

I can't count the number of times this kid has had me in stitches, with either his wild antics or his tall tales. The dinner table, though, is perhaps my favorite locale for silliness. We have, by no means, a serious dinner. The concept that children should be "seen and not heard" does not apply in this house. Despite my efforts to serve gourmet meals on the lovely china, with well-groomed children using impeccable manners, it...well, it just hasn't happened yet. We aren't raucous or gross, either, mind you. We just have humorous mealtimes, usually spurred by Isaac saying, "today, you know what happened?"

"Mommy, today...you know what happened at school? The gym teacher told us to bounce basketballs against the wall and catch them. It was fun. Until it bounced at me and hit me in the nuts. It hurt soooo much. I couldn't talk in my regular voice."

Me (stifling a grin and trying to look concerned): "What exactly are your nuts?"

"You know, those things, on my crouch."

"Oh....yes, your crouch. I don't have those, then. Nuts."

"Yes, you do, Mommy. The girls at school said they do."

Gabe is laughing wildly at this point, as he apparently calls his "biscuits."

"Eat your dinner," I say, "and you go to school with some very interesting girls."

The boys continue giggling between bites, and Ella chimes in the best way she knows how, turning to Isaac and shrieking "Pull my finger!"

So, anyway, I guess I named him appropriately, even if he is, often, wildly inappropriate. He doesn't realize it's inappropriate. He was speaking earnestly, of a traumatic event during gym class!

He makes us laugh, and that's for sure. He's very smart, clever, and imaginative to go along with it, so there's great potential for his future.

But stand-up will always be an option, I suppose, if nothing else pans out.