Dearest God, please let me keep him.
It’s the only prayer I know these days. I used to pray about all kinds of silly stuff. And then again, maybe I wasn’t praying; maybe I was just talking to God, complaining actually—telling Him how to do His job. I’ve been bossy like that, I suppose.
I haven’t meant to be critical and petty; my griping has been more impulsive than premeditated. Complaints just slipped out when I didn’t understand life’s little annoyances.
And for the most part, that had been the extent of my troubles—little annoyances. Like the Scotch tape. It annoyed me that there were at least ten rolls of it somewhere in our house, but the concept of putting an item back in the drawer is beyond the comprehension of my crew. So every blasted time I needed to wrap a package, I’d go grumbling off to Wal-Mart to fetch another roll, which I would use once, drop into our junk drawer (aka the Bermuda Rectangle), and never see again.
I can hardly believe I’ve wasted stress over such nonsense as I watch Nathan prepare for his little show. He’s the next Ron Popeil—or so he thinks.
“Ladies and gennamen,” he begins with uncommon spunk and bravado. “If you are not compweatly satisfied wif Showtime Knives, we give you money back!”
My Nathan is three years old and obsessed with infomercials. Having methodically lined up twenty-some-odd dirty sticks along the first row of our team’s aluminum bleachers, he is in full swing now—selling his knives to a vulnerable audience: heat-beaten parents, entirely open to an excuse that would permit them to ignore the poor performances of their own thirteen-year-old Little Leaguers. There is chuckling at first; then I notice two ladies in front of me looking at each other with wide, gawking eyes.
“If puhchased sepwatly, dees knives would cost eight hundwed fifty dolluhs,” Nathan declares as orange-clay smoke billows behind him from a run sliding in at home plate. “But, today, you can own dees knives for tree easy payments of just nine nindy-nine.”
A quiet laughter surrounds me. People are whispering, “Who is that little boy?” and “How old is that kid?” Nathan’s antics are nothing new to me, but it’s a treat to eavesdrop on the amusement of others. He is precocious and funny and vying to be the center of attention; and those elements alone are usually enough to enamor (or annoy) a gathering of strangers, but there’s more here than meets the eye. These folks are likely mistaking him for a much younger child. His diminutive size gives him the appearance of a baby delivering a grown-up speech, compounding the astonishment.
Diminutive is a word that makes me feel better, allows me to roll a more comfortable thought around in my mind, a thought that proposes he is simply small for his age rather than a boy with an uncertain future. Truth is, Nathan’s stunted growth is called “failure to thrive” by the medical professionals who are assessing him; it’s a common side effect for children with congenital heart defects. His heart, we are told, is rather unusual—twisted backwards in his chest, a fact that sometimes puts a strain on my relationship with God in my weaker moments. I always come around, though. I keep reminding myself that His eye is on the sparrow, so there’s no such thing as divine oversight. Still, it’s hard. There’s not a day on this earth that I’m not plotting or praying to find the right way, the right surgeon to turn this around.
Mind you, I can’t dwell on this predicament my every waking moment—a person would go mad. Serves us all best if I focus most of my leisurely contemplations on how charming and bright and sensitive I perceive my little guy to be. And, yes, I know—that’s the kind of tripe that will make your eyes glaze over—people gushing about their perfect kids. For the most part, I restrain myself.
For example, right now, I’m wondering if this group would believe me if I told them my Nathan, that kid who is zealously hawking Showtime Knives, has been reading since he was two? I’m just wondering, mind you; I haven’t actually brought this up. Now, if I were to expound on this small boy’s talents, who could blame me for bringing up his ability to name every state on a simple map? Or mentioning that he can identify the model of any car in the parking lot that has a current television commercial?
And if they think his Showtime Knives shtick is funny, they should hear him carry on about the Sharper Image Ionic Breeze Quadra or the Magic Bullet. Since he discovered the 24-hour infomercial channel, I can’t convince him to spend more than five minutes watching Disney or Nickelodeon, the typical childhood fare—he’s too busy learning salesmanship. But I haven’t actually brought any of these intriguing tidbits to the attention of this group of spectators.
Can’t say that I’m always so well disciplined. I hope the occasional stranger I have accosted with details of my child’s extraordinary vocabulary and memorization skills will forgive me. Because I have to concentrate on what’s good and right with Nathan. And I can’t always contain this compulsion under certain circumstances—like when a healthy three-year-old is running rings around Nathan without getting winded in the least—or when an understandably proud momma points out how tall her two-year-old is in comparison. It’s times like that when I just find myself blurting out these bragging bits.
There’s no necessity to boast right now. I am watching the Kid King of Infomercials in control of a hijacked crowd. His brilliance is self-evident.
“Watch as I slice dis sheet wock,” Nathan implores with vaudevillian flair. “Now, my Showtime Knife can still slice dis tomato. Can you knife do dat?”
His golden hair has dampened in the South Mississippi humidity, and although he is basking in Showtime glory, he puts his stick knives down for the moment and bangs his way up the bleachers on pale, skinny legs in Velcro sneakers to sit by my side. His melted Sprite, purchased at the concession stand during the first inning, has languished in the heat long enough to be covered in condensation droplets. When he grabs the glistening cup, his grimy hands create gritty copper-toned swirls as he gulps.
Teenage girls sitting nearby giggle and remark that he is “so cute” and “adorable.” He aims his eyes straight ahead, pretending not to hear them, but smiles as he drinks.
“What’s your name?” asks a thin, pony-tailed girl with perfect eye makeup.
“Na-fan!” he declares. He has trouble pronouncing ‘th’ and my attempts to help him say “Naay…THaan” result in him saying “Naay…Faan”—same thing, just slower. “What you name?” he asks back flirtatiously. I can’t get “yourrrr” out of him either.
“I’m Ashley,” she says, giggling. “What did you say your name was?”
I realize she’s having difficulty understanding, so I volunteer the correct pronunciation. “His name is Nathan,” I say. “It’s a little hard to understand some of his words…”
“Ohhh,” she says, comprehending his speech impediment. “What a cutie! Are you his grandmother?”
Grandmother. That smarts… but I’m 44 years old, after all… and I’ve had five children. But, Geez, I color my hair, I watch my weight, I’m wearing Sevens jeans… Grandmother?
“No, I’m his mom,” I say. She looks embarrassed, so I quickly add, “I’m old enough to be his grandmother; he’s my late-in-life surprise baby.” Ugh. That sounds like I didn’t want him. “But I like surprises—so I’m very glad he came along.” Better.
“He seems so smart,” she says, seemingly relieved that I’m not in a huff. “How old is he?”
“I’m free years old,” Nathan interjects as he moves up the bleachers to plant himself smack in the middle of the band of pretty girls. They are dressed summer-chic, and he’s attracted to their fresh faces and giddiness. And even though he’s clad in elastic waist shorts with “18 mos.” on the Baby Gap tag, he believes he has a chance with these girls. I’m fairly certain he will tell me which one is his new girlfriend after the game.
“I tell you about de Ionic Bweeze Quadwa by Shawpuh Image,” he says to squeals of laughter. “It twaps airborne particles such as dust, pollen, and pet dander.”
“Pet dander!” a girl repeats incredulously.
“And there are no air filters to weplace,” he adds, encouraged by their rapt attention. “Simply wipe the stainless steel collection gwid wif a damp cloff.” The girls are laughing hysterically now. Nathan smiles impishly, pleased with the chaos he’s created.
_____
“A bunch of tee-ballers could’ve played better than we played tonight!” Steven, my thirteen-year-old middle son, is fuming mad over his team’s performance as my husband, Bryan, drives us home from the game.
“I know you’re frustrated,” Bryan consoles, talking into the rearview mirror where he can see Steven festering in the back seat. “But look at this as an opportunity to maintain your skills, and you’ll be in good shape for school tryouts.” Bryan is not in charge of the team; he simply keeps score when asked or helps out in the dugout. Tonight he coached first base and remains in coach mode as we roll down the familiar roads in Bayou View. “Don’t let this get you down,” he says. “You’ve got to try to maintain a good attitude.” Hard to tell if Steven is reflecting or brooding; he stares blankly out the car window. “I’ll bet Nathan has a good attitude,” he says, shifting his attention. “How about it, buddy? Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Actualwy, I made sevwal new fwiends,” he replies coolly.
“You mean those pretty girls I saw you sitting with?” Bryan teases.
“Of couwse. And you know what, Daddy? Ashwey is my new gullfwiend.” Told ya’ we’d get around to that.
“Ashley? Did your mom meet this girl?” Bryan takes his eyes off the road briefly and smiles over at me with a wink.
“I did, indeed,” I say. “She seems like a nice girl.” I smile at first, but then I slide my hand across the console where Bryan’s own hand is resting, and I fake a pout. “Do you think I look like a grandma?” Yes, I am shamelessly fishing for a compliment.
“Oh, no—did someone ask you if you were Nathan’s grandmother again?”
“Yes,” I whine, poking out my bottom lip for added effect.
“Karen—if you were a grandma, you’d be the best lookin’ grandma I’ve ever seen.” God knows I love him for that. Usually, there’s nothing worse than a liar, but sometimes, there’s nothing better.
My current vice is vanity. I have a stock pile of weapons to combat the ravages of time—Retin-A, Oil of Olay, exfoliating creams, concealers, moisturizers, and age-defying foundation. Judging from the grandma remarks I’m getting lately, my arsenal is failing. I have resisted complaining to God about this, because I know I need to stop bothering Him with petty grievances.
I’m much better than I used to be. Compared to my pre-Nathan days, I’ve made great strides in taming my mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve tallied up several hundred mini-repentances over the years: Sorry, God, I should be grateful I have an oven even though the “1” on the touch pad is kaput. Sorry, God, picking up Scotch tape at the store is not so bad; I’m almost out of Lean Cuisines anyway. Sorry, God, the nasty things I said about the moles that have eaten their way through my flower garden were totally uncalled for.
I suspect God ignored my trivial rants—thought something like “There she goes again” and redirected his attention to the pleas from people in war zones and hospitals and earthquakes. But He has paid attention to me in rougher spots. Like when I thought He was never going to bless me with children, and I wasted a good year and a half being depressed. I questioned God: Why does that clueless, unmarried, sixteen-year-old have a baby on each hip instead of me, a twenty-five year old, responsible, married grown-up? And then boom, boom, boom, BOOM—I had four children in less than nine years.
Looking back, I realize that I’ve been as clueless as the next person. On the Richter scale of troubles, mine were barely a bump… but, boy, did that needle jerk. I discovered it is possible for God to drop inexplicable joy and a dollop of disaster in your lap at exactly the same time.
Joy and disaster—that’s what life with my Nathan feels like. One moment I think he’s the funniest thing that ever dropped out of heaven. In my next breath, I’m terrified he could be returned to the heavens from whence he came.
Dearest God, please let me keep him.
