Our Family Curse

"May you have children just. like. you."

My grandparents said it to my mother, my parents would say it to me. Shoot, it even made my father's toast at our wedding five and a half years ago. Its our patented version of the Chinese curse "May you live in interesting times."

Then, one day last week, I looked over at my son and thought - how did I end up with the little boy version of me?

In so many ways, our little monkey is all boy, all the time. He loves trains, trucks, and baseball (and basketball, football, hockey and all other sports he can pronounce). He loves jumping, saluting, Batman and kicking. All boy, all the time.

But, oh, his personality. He is so much like me, its kind of scary.

He has two volumes - loud and even louder. We keep practicing "whispers," but have yet to have much success. My youth leader from high school once told me that it didn't matter how many other high schoolers were in the youth room (with the door closed, mind you), she always knew when I was among them because she could pick out the sound of my voice from everyone else's (from the next room). Apparently, my voice carries. And, apparently, this is genetic.

The boy has an explanation for every. thing. Oh, how my mother is laughing at me now. Its not even always sass-back (and as of now, its not even always totally comprehensible what he's saying), but he has a comeback, comment or remark for every time you tell him something.

Case-in-point: he was holding my hand coming down the stairs the other day (just because he loves me - he's such a big boy, he holds the banister and does it all by himself) and was trying to use the leverage of my hand to jump down each step (see? All boy.) I told him its not safe, we don't jump down the steps, we walk nicely. He then proceeded, in a combination of baby talk and understandable words, to explain to me that he would agree to a compromise of only jumping off the last step. Who can argue with that kind of logic?

Our boyo is a bit, how shall, we say, particular, about certain things (cough, type A, cough). His guys have to be in a certain arrangement, his books have to be in a certain way in the car, and heaven forbid he not have a napkin on his tray while he's eating. He's not diagnosable or anything, he just likes what he wants, when he wants. And, I can relate to that, says the woman that won't let the Army move her even when shes 6.5 months pregnant because she doesn't trust anyone to pack her stuff the "right" way.

He is a magnet for bumping into things, just like his mother - if there is a corner, door frame, wall or rug available to be tripped on or fallen into, he [and I] will find it. Mr. 2nd Lt. gets a lot of mileage out of this, believeyoume.

Oh, and? Stubborn. As a mule in the mud. Luckily, from experience, I know that this will serve him well later in life when it balances out and becomes determination and stick-to-it-edness, but in the present, this causes some of our most ugly moments. Ever heard someone say you don't like in others that which you struggle with in yourself? Oh heavens, yes. When stubborn him meets stubborn me, and concupiscence rears its nasty head, it isn't always pretty.

Thus, an opportunity for grace. Mostly, the glimpses of me that I see in him make me smile and ever so grateful for the gift of motherhood. And, instead of losing my temper over the bits of me that aren't so attractive, I am learning [trying, trying, trying] to take the step back that allows me to lay down my pride over "winning" and "being right" and instead, leaves me free to love the way a mother should - the way the heavenly Father loves us.


Holy Family, pray for us!