Been in the minority all my life.
Little sister with two big brothers.
New mother of first one son, then another!
Soon-to-be-grandmother of a grand son.
I am so grateful for the majorities in my life . . .
I truly love boys. Enjoy being in their company, getting glimpses into their world. I admire their honesty and courage and bravado and fun. I'm grateful to be a girl, don't get me wrong. I'm glad I don't have to be the one who gets up every day and goes to work shouldering the pressure to provide for my family. I'm glad I'm not the one at the plate with a 3-2 count, 2 outs, and the winning run on second base.
But I am grateful for the eons my Mom and I spend sitting on the bleachers at every kind of ball game known to Americans in the '50's and '60's. As little sister, I'm glad to observe my brother Bill disect a shark that's kept for a science project in a barrel of foul-smelling liquid behind our garage. Also glad to witness the beating heart of a live frog on the 'operating table' in our kitchen when the same fearless mad scientist anesthetizes said reptile with gin, and later releases it back into it's garden habitat post sutures with Mom's needle and thread. I'm grateful for the jade circlet ring that I receive after a dance recital from a proud, tender-hearted brother. After getting an anonymous dirty phone call, I'm grateful for the indignant, protective outrage of both my teen brothers.
In high school, I bask in the new-found genuine friendship with my brother Doug.
It's so cool to spend time riding around in Dad's MGB GT with Doug behind the wheel, listening to Brother Elijah preach the word from the Bible Ways Revival Church broadcast on the radio, and laughing as we put our hands on the radio "to receive
the powa!" I'm grateful for the majority in my family home.
The lessons learned: how competitive, hard-working, curious, crazy, mysterious, smelly, fearless, fun, tender, and protective they can be.
Years passed, and God gave me a new majority: a husband and two sons. What a gift. What a joy!
I'm glad for preschool boys' eyes to see railroad cars transformed in front of my halted minivan--to find adventure in counting dusty boxcars and dreaming outloud of unknown destinations. I'm grateful for a birthday with Plaster of Paris dinosaur prints, rumbling big wheels that do
Bat Turns on the driveway, and that distinctive clatter made by a plastic milk crate full of Legos when little architects are creating. And for the life of me, I'll never understand how little boys can make all those realistic motor sounds--jet planes, race cars, rescue vehicles, Star Wars X-Fighters . . . you name it.
I'm grateful for tender bedtime moments. A rambunctious 3 has to be corralled on the bottom bunk between the wall and me with a book until he's still enough for the sandman to catch up. A vulnerable 7 confesses that he never wants to leave home, and I try to convince him through his tears that he won't have to go until he's ready; that one day, when he's much bigger, he will be ready and it won't be scary then. I'm refreshed by the honesty of little boys who say exactly what they're thinking without malice aforethought. I'm grateful for the lack of guile and drama in a boy's world.
I'm grateful for grass stains, school pants with frayed knees, sweat-stained baseball caps, and that brassy smell of boys at the end of the day, just before bathtime. I learned that the real question is
not just "Have you washed your hands?" but "Have you washed your hands
with soap?" I'm grateful that no matter how simple the food, they love eating what I provide . . . constantly.
Growing up, barber shop appointments are always followed by stops at The Shoe Box just to see if feet have grown--which they always have. Blowing bubblegum bubbles is a perfected art form passed from father to sons, as are all those wonderful body noises produced with hand and armpit (if you're lucky!)
I smile in my heart when I witness the family cocker bark as if she's just heard a stranger, when it's actually one of her boys, himself dismayed at his yet-to-be-finalized man voice. I stand back and ask for reinforcements from Dad when the mysterious teenage wonder years descend. "Please help me here. I've never been a teenage boy," I say. I'm grateful for hours spent driving carpools with all the surprising information communicated when everyone is facing forward. I'm grateful for afterschool jobs that help pay for new-found freedoms and huge tennis shoes that cost more than my first month's apartment rent.
I'm grateful for launches. Necessities for college life are packed in the bed of a pick up truck, and "No, I'll be fine driving to College Station by myself."
Necessities for a career in California are packed in a mid-sized SUV, and "I'll call you when I get there."
Necessities for on-site rig training in northeast Arkansas are packed in a sub-compact, and "I love you, Mom."
Necessities are packed in
both a pick-up
and a mid-sized SUV for new life in Brazil, and "Thank you both so much. We never could have done this without you. I love you."
I'm grateful that my prophecy from years before has come to pass. Those vulnerable little boys who never want to leave home do get bigger one day. They are imaginative, messy, energetic, loving little powerhouses who learn honesty and courage through sweaty success and fractured failure. Honing that innate sense of adventure with a touch of practicality and irreverence, they step up to the plate. Oh, how I thank God for the majorities in my life.
And now, a new majority of one is on his way.
Cecilia and Will's son, Daniel Reese Maia Bingham, is due in February, 2012. He will be born in Brazil, the country his wonderful mother calls home. Baby has a strong heartbeat, big feet (according to his ultrasound), and the best parents in the world. Can't wait to see what God has planned for Daniel.
I truly love boys . . .
