Carson turns 17 today. 

It's hard to believe that it's been 17 years since he came on the scene.  I'd spent the 6 years prior to him raising Blair, quite possibly the most feminine child ever to walk the earth, and so I knew a boy was definitely going to be a change of gears for us.....kind of like going from 4th to reverse. 

At first, the differences were subtle.  His baby hands were bigger.  His cry was louder.  He could pee in my face.  And I'd rock him and instead of cuddling sweetly on my shoulder, he'd try to scale me like a rock wall. 

He got older and other differences started to show.  He'd come in from playing outside and his hair would be soaking wet with sweat and soon there was this smell that would fill the room.  His sister never smelled like that before. 

There was this fascination with urinating outside. I didn't know what it was about relieving oneself off the front porch or in the backyard that was so enticing but there must've been something to it that I'd never get to experience.  I soon learned to appreciate the convenience, though, in that he was able to go practically anywhere in case of emergencies.

Everything he picked up was used as a weapon.  A stick.  A popsicle.  A banana.  A paper towel roll.  Pow. Pow. Pow.  If it was seen as unfit for a weapon, it was a truck.  One of the two.      

His daddy would come home from work and he'd immediately jump on top of him.  They'd get in the floor and roll around, wrestling and pinning each other down.  From where I sat, it looked like a miserable time of grunting, sweating, and turning red but it was like he'd been waiting all day for another dude to come around so he could unleash some of his maleness.  He'd been civilized for long enough at home with me all day. 

He'd stop me down the hall from his preschool room and insist that we kiss before we got near the classroom door.  Oh, how he loved me, but I soon learned that it would need to be our little secret. 

Most of his toys shot foam bullets or lasers or balls or darts or discs or pellets or water.  The rest of them made obnoxious noises.  Each action figure came with 12 guns, 19 knives, and 8 swords.    

The sight of big trucks or tractors or ATVs or sports cars or bulldozers or airplanes made him stiffen up, squeal, and make motor noises with his lips with spit flying everywhere from his intense sounds.    

Somehow, flatulence was a constant source of humor.  Anything that sounded like it, rhymed with it, or reminded him of it was considered hilarity at its finest. 

He'd get in the car after school and trying to pull information out of him about his day was like trying to birth a breech calf.  I was used to a constant flood of info from his sister about every little thing but, with him, it was more like a well pump.  You had to work for every little drop.   

From day one, I knew I was in for something different and I was right.  Something wonderfully different.  He was louder and rougher but, there was something incredibly tender about him under all of his busyness and smells.  He loved his Mama more than I ever imagined a little boy could love me. 
   
Seventeen years later and he's growing into a man. 

A good man.

And I'm blessed to be his Mama. 


Happy Birthday, son. 



And y'all have a good day!