• Mr. Wild

    Sunday, March 8, 2015


    Someday I will remember, from the view of longing, to slip back, hold him in my lap, sooth so many of his meltdowns with the comfort of my love. 

    Someday he will be big, responsible and grown away from mothering needs.
     I think I may grieve that. 
    These days with him are hectic, he is so… wild. 
    There is no rhyme, no reason. 

    One week he will skip, jolly through the grocery store, cheerfully smiling at those around and helpfully pattering away at my side, other weeks he cries, loses all composure at the mere mention of leaving home, he glumly hides under the bulk of his coat (regardless of outdoor temperatures) he panics, losses his breath, screams and shrills! 
    From here the only recovery will be if he slips into a fitful sleep. 

    Somedays he is the highlight of our home, so much life, brimming with joy and laughter. 
    There are fun days when stories, hilarious antics flow out of him, capturing us all in stitches! There are sweet days genuine displays of thoughtfulness. 

    Yet, yet there are darker days. Really, when not even I can figure him, sooth him, heal whatever tempestuous storm is raging beyond understanding. 
    He is an odd sort of confident independence and moody defiance.

    Somedays it is hard to reach him. I get lost a bit, in the overwhelm. I forget to treasure what makes him unique. 

    The way he ties, everything, up! Or tapes anything, or every things to anything or everything. Yesterday it was the blinds, tape and tape and tape and yarn and rope!
     Took me a while (better part of the day) to get the taped blinds free.   

    He will unfold every pair of sock, match them to his preference, line them all up and pick his own flare. Everyday its a new combo, everyday all the ‘un-chosen’ socks are left in long lines across his bedroom floor.
    Every day he repeats this sock choosing ritual.

    This boy does not settle down and play often, but when he does it is with all intensity. 
    Shear focus and all encompassing imagination. 

    He lines objects up
    methodical and mathematical. 

    He keeps me in his radar, night and day, likes me to be near, as in within view. 

    Endearing and overwhelming. 

    Like the other children, their blessing, a prayer placed in our paternal hearts at infancy, from the Lord and found in scripture. 
    Hung by their bed. 
    His is there. 
    We read it often out loud, once we’ve made it through all the stories and lullabies, hugs and kisses, the endless bedtime procrastination, once he's unwound and settled, when our patience is running thin, Dad steadier then my concerns, reads it confident, a voiced assurance sure and slow, as if he is speaking into the deep parts of our boy, the wild one.
     Ancient words that are hope filled.

    According to the family tree of the Hebronites, 
     held pride of place.

    In the fortieth year of David’s reign (his last), the Hebron family tree was researched and outstanding men were found at Jazer in Gilead, namely, Jeriah and 2,700 men of his extended family: David the king made them responsible for administration of matters related to the worship of God and the work of the king in the territory east of the Jordan—the Reubenites, the Gadites, and the half-tribe of Manasseh.
    1 Chronicles 26
    This prayer, this blessings, a sort of promise, I cling to. Ruminate over, mull it around the concerns. God spoke it so clear when I grew him within, long before I even knew he was a boy. 

    He is as unique as his name that is so full of meaning.

    He is my wild, my concern, the one whom I deeply love. And for the sake of never wanting to forget, I will remember that he is my gift, good and precious, from a God who believes I can mother, even the wilds of this boy.