Balance

The wheels clatter on the tiled floor, a harsh sound against the quiet of the morning. "Mom, watch what I can do," my little one states authoritatively as he holds his toy against the top of his barn roof. The rattle of metal on plastic is loud, grating -- the sound more abrasive for the stillness of early day and otherwise peaceful house.

It's not a little boy toy this time, it's a new toy -- a bigger boy toy -- his newest obsession: the fingerboard. He holds it, moves it over toy buildings and books, often flinging it excitedly --carelessly. Racing it. Twisting it, flipping it, he practices the pop, the ollie... balancing the board on the edge, balancing the books together to form the basis for his tricks.... creating.... balancing.

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Patience is slow to come in the morning. Calm and peace are broken suddenly yet gradually with the first touch that startles me into waking: "Mom, I'm hungry." Routine tasks take over and I'm grateful I don't have to think about what to do... a morning snuggle, getting up, making breakfast, pouring water for tea... a pleasant groove to start the day. Louder, more animated now, Evan finishes breakfast and starts playing. Light and motion move more quickly as he gains momentum.

The day is filled with a certain monotonous acceleration... "Mom, look at this," "Mom, watch me," "Mom, see what I can do,"... and I wonder when science will catch up with motherhood and start actualizing the cloning process so that I can really be all that he wants and needs.

I'm dizzy now, needing to catch my breath, needing to slow down this brilliant flash of light and sound I call my son.

A cricket on speed: he rushes through each day, moving from neutral to 5th gear and taking off in a race against childhood, seemingly aiming for adolescence. Teens... he's fascinated by teenagers, intrigued and in awe... he wants so badly to be one. He's four, and yet the only thing that sets him apart from the teenager he might become is his physical presence. 42 inches tall, he moves with assurance and purpose, confident in his knowledge and experience, loud and lovely, ready to take on the world and share and teach. Cocky, he brushes past what he does not know as if it doesn't exist.

And he doesn't stop talking. Each moment is described at his leisure, the ceaseless commentary scripts each act in this headlong venture he creates moment to moment. Sounds, often senseless scatting that blends into the background music of today; tuning it out it becomes one with the growl of road construction machines down the street.

Impetuous, the reality he lives in exists for everyone, if only they could see it. He's a boy -- rough and certain in many things, unaware of what he does not know, inattentive to words and motions and all the other flashes of light and sound around him.

He exists and that is enough.

He is a boy, but there's much of the baby lying beneath the mask of maturity he tries to wear.

The hugs and kisses and confirmation of my love he seeks constantly. The unquestioned assistance he waits on. He does what he does and knows that I am there for him. As a mother? A servant? A friend? It all becomes one in a mishmash of expectations and the demands of a day.

The quiet I long for, the studied movement and deliberate thoughtful motions in time are difficult to create. Stop -- breathe. More eating, less talking. Use your words, please. Just relax -- take your time. Please wait a minute. The lines in my script, repeated often -- continually flowing from my lips in a rehearsed recitation that marks my time.

Deep breaths, centering... gathering my thoughts preparing for the next wondrous onslaught of words and activity. This fruitless exercise, pacing myself, trying to help him pace himself -- relax, take your time... There is little time left before I'm caught in the next rushing current ... I hear him racing around again... already... pounding feet across the floor upstairs as the next thing catches his erratic attention.

Breathe. Just breathe.