Hope no one is offended by this Ode to Quinn on his official birthday – October 10th! We teach our kids the proper names for all their parts and Quinn is not slow to pick up on humor! (His career goal is to be Seinfeld when he grows up. )I wrote this last week, drinking in the soul-sustenance of enjoying my little boy. It’s a proper Happy 6th birthday to my little Man who is a complex and beautiful creature.

My ever-bigger-boy
Sits, still dirty in his tepid bath water
Enquiring eyes
Aimed up at mine
I have ordered him to wash his Whole Body.

“Uranus!” . . . . . giggles
Is that your favorite planet?, I ask wryly.
“it’s just a funny one”
“uranus!” . . . . . giggles
“my favorite planet is earth.
It’s my home planet”
(and I marvel
That this boy thinks in these terms
A traveler, at heart)

What’s your favorite country?, I ask
Ever-full of the mom questions.
He is barely thoughtful.
“of course I like at least two best,
America and Uganda.
Because I have friends both places
And favorite things.
Maybe I’ll like other countries best too.”

He scrubs vigorously
At his truly filthy
Little boy body
Scrubs till the soaps lathers hard
Then does his upside-down hair-rinsing trick.
Oh, how I love this boy.

Barely dry
“Cause I’m so URGENT!”
A vessel is pulled from his window-sill jar collection.
‘Ugandan Grenadian Syrup’, the elegant bottle reads.
Now a new home for fireflies which are
“totally tame” according to him.
He tells me how their lights help them to attract their mates,
As he slurps the noodles out of his chicken noodle soup
And recites his meal time prayer with extra strength.

“I think you and Dad might really be
. . . . .aliens.” he tells me,
Straight-faced,
At bedtime.
We question, how then he came to be human??
“It’s possible”, he says. “Hard to be sure.
What if our imaginings can make things true?”,
He wonders.
And I am reminded that my job is to allow his
Fantasy to fly while reassuring him
That reality is solidly behind, before and around him.
He is safe.

He hates underwear.
He loves weapons.
He tells gruesome fantasy stories.
And he cries to me not to kill the insects
Making their home, uninvited, with us.
He is hopeful that he may someday
Be able to marry his sister or his
Mother.
And he fervently declares that he hates us,
Whenever we cross his will.

This is the boy-man that I hold,
Lightly,
In my arms. Whose face I stroke
In sleep.
The one who wiped my kisses off
This evening.
But who will burrow into me in the morning
Desperate for snuggles.
Oh, how I love this boy.