Push-Ups: My Yiddish "L" Baby

Zachary James Alexander Val-james. THAT was how my son, now fifteen, used to pronounce his name when asked to give the entire length and breadth of it. The maze of wee child's active brain. 'tis an amusing and beautiful thing. Another of his engaging speechisms that he's been unable to fully shake involves his pronunciation of the letter "L." We've attempted to dissect the anatomy of his verbal form and noted that he places the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth instead of behind his top front teeth. Thus, every time he comes across this letter, the sound is somewhat swallowed and faintly guttural, causing one to speculate that there might be a Yiddish-speaking relative somewhere in his genetic woodpile. Sarah christened him the "L" baby many years ago. It's endearing. He refuses to correct it -- evidently he has arrived at the conclusion that the rest of us, you, me, everyone in between, except maybe Barbara Walters, enunciate erroneously.

This boy of ours, the one who arrived as a complete surprise, because we elected not to find out if the baby in my womb carried the Y chromosome, and brought tears to my usually stoic husband's eyes, is rife with character, ripe with teen angst, rippling with lithe lean boy muscle, and riddled with the emotional make-up of his dear sainted mother. Okay. Okay. Though he does find me to be quite dear, he presently rejoices in reminding me of how un-saintly I actually am. (Ironically, the girls used to ridicule me in their maternally-disciplined moments and accuse me of being a nun. I'd explain that #1: I'm not Catholic, and #2: they know my history and have seen my barely closeted skeletons!) Not to mention that I've fallen from one who knew all things in his adolescence to one who knows nothing as he teeters on the cusp of manhood. (Mothers of little boys who place you at the center of their wee universes, this will happen to you. I've spoken with other sainted moms about the conundrum. One pious parent actually informed me to allow any child who believes his mother knows everything to continue to believe that for as long as possible. DO NOT, under any circumstances, tell him any differently. A case of a-little-too-late for me. Thanks! BIG sigh. HUGE. ELEPHANTINE.)

Tonight, while handing me hangers for his dad's slacks and jeans, Zachary struck up a conversation on the nature of his face. A handsome face I absolutely, unequivocally, wholeheartedly adore. Especially when it's sleeping. Or grinning. Or devouring two banana-and-peanut-butter sandwiches on whole wheat bread. Pointing to his cheekbones, angled planes which echo the American Indian lineage he inherited from my father's side, he informed me that his face is more like mine. We have "lines." I said we had a more pronounced bone structure. He nodded and seemed to peer more intently at our reflection in the dresser mirror on the other side of my laundry-laden bed. "My head is bigger than yours," declared this observant boy, "but women's heads are generally smaller than men's heads. That's a good thing." That rather tickled me.

The preferred breakfast and snack.

I'd post a picture of the two of us standing together, large and small heads contrasted, but he declined the photo session invite. "Are you kidding?! I don't want any pictures of my face looking like this!" The poor kid is enduring a cystic acne breakout which has erupted along the middle of his forehead. Wrestling and smashing his face against those germy mats hasn't been helpful to his condition. He's now allowing his once #3 buzz-cut to grow in order to camouflage the invading purulent forces. At church tonight for his youth group, he ran into a 5 year-old boy from one of the Hispanic families who were meeting for their own mid-week services. Looking up at my only son's countenance, this innocent child quickly assessed what he saw and stated, "Oh, you have chicken pox!" Ouch! When he relayed the scenario to his oldest sister, she guffawed. I quickly explained that she was laughing with him while sympathizing with his misfortune before he decided to put her in a half-Nelson. Without skipping a beat, he forced one of his famous bear hugs on her and sniffed her head, declaring, "Your hair smells like daffodils!"

I love my boy. Lots of people love him. Old and young. Male and female. Athletic and geeky. Overall, he's a well-adjusted kid with a good heart and enough energy to power our entire house if we could ever figure out the scientific equation for harnessing it!

Here are a few pictures I can share. Including one of our other 'boy.'