Reflections on a golden boy

 

This kid makes life wonderful.  At the beach, he's dragon hunting. At home, he's on all fours, mascarading as Mr. Purr (aka That Darn Cat). At the park, he's racing kids twice his age, competing in bruise-worthy gymnastic feats and itchy grass fights. At the library, he's sitting cross-legged in his pyjamas listening to a story about barn animals and a bed big enough for them all. This is E's dream. A bed for all the animals and dragons and boys and parents (so long as they will let him touch their nipples) of the world. At grandma's, he's playing Dr. Rioux, using granny's old Playtex pantyliners as bandages to heal the wounded soldiers in the livingroom. If you call him, he will ask you to come over to his house, and if you explain that you are very far away (miles and miles and maybe even a border crossing) he will offer to come pick you up so that you can play trains together, or dig a moat in the sandbox. You will wish you could do these things with him, because -- like I said -- this kid makes life wonderful.

At night, in bed, his daddy sings to him an old Cat Stevens song from his bunting days. It's called "Moonshadow", but daddy-man changes the words so the lyrics go like this:

Ethan's being followed by a moonshadow,

Moonshadow, moonshadow

He's leaping and hopping on a moonshadow,

Moonshadow, moonshadow

And if he ever loses his eyes
If his colours all run dry
Oh if he ever loses his eyes
Oh e-eee-eee
He won't have to cry no more

There are more verses, for hands, legs, mouth, and the longer it takes for E to drop off, the farther along daddy gets. E listens, lying quiet in his bed, with his eyes still open. Finally he says, "Daddy, stop singing about my body parts falling off." There is too much laughter now for either of them to sleep. 

Rioux boys

J and E are birds of a feather. Each loves a trip to the beach to overturn rocks and watch, with uneasy fascination, the sprawl and scramble of a consortium of crabs. Each takes pride in showing off their daily scrapes. Each has a belly laugh, which -- when started -- does not subside and usually spreads to those lucky enough to be in their good company. They are Rioux boys. Adventurous, curious, bizarre and brilliant. Their hearts are too big for their bodies.

There is enough alike between them to make it painful to watch their friction, for when they are at odds it is as though they are two jagged edges of the same broken piece, the same boy torn at the seams. I am a poor seamstress. I watch and wish and wonder and wail and, ultimately, wait for them to mend themselves. They do, they always do, but I am new at this and every fight feels like the first and last, the one to do our family in. For the sake of reminding as much as comforting myself, I acknowledge this has never come close to being true.

I would not choose a life without them. As much as they are two parts of each other, they are both the whole of my heart. Fortunately, though I am little, I have heart enough to hold them both, all their wildness, all their joy and fury. And fortunately I have the benefit of wisdom, borrowed from those who have mothered longer than me, to know that we will weather all these tempests. Our love will always be the strongest thing that passes between us, these boys and I.