Reflections

Shortly after Edward's birth, I overheard an exchange between two of my in-laws. One of my sisters-in-law (sorry: I don't remember whom! Feel free to 'fess up!) asked her mother why everybody always thought their own babies were the cutest. Elaine's response struck me as notably wise: she responded something to the effect that it was because people's own babies remind them the most of themselves.

Of course, this is not entirely true in terms of my own boys: in a strictly objective consideration of every baby I have ever seen in my entire life, I have no choice but to conclude that my boys' cuteness far surpasses all others'. No offense to every other baby in the history of ever, or anything. Facts is facts.

Still, I must admit that there is something to the idea that we favor that cuteness that reflects ourselves. When we see our own quirks, traits, sayings, and gestures mimicked by our children, we find it endearing or scary because it provides a reflection into our own souls. My boys' miniature reflections of myself provide endless entertainment and insight into my personal flaws.

For instance, neither of my boys says "please." Not that they're impolite, really: they both of them regularly say "thank you" (in Robert's case, "taint-too!") and "you're welcome" (or "yah-wah-cah!") appropriately. It's just that I don't say please very often. "Would you hand that book to me Edward?... Thank you." "Robert, could you help me put the trains away?... Thank you."

***
Buckling Robert in to his carseat, he grins and cries out enthusiastically: "Taint-too, Mommy!" Kissing him on the head, I reply: "You are most certainly welcome, Pickle Juice."
***

Ha! Speaking of pickle juice, my propensity for silly nicknames has gotten us all in trouble on more than one occasion. My boys may hate me for this one day, but one of my common nicknames for my boys is "Poops." Edward outgrew the name when he completed potty training, but we still use the term for Robert. The other day while playing outside with a friend, Edward commented, giggling, on the friend's playing antics: "Benjamin! You're being a silly poops!" At this point, Benjamin's eyes got very wide indeed, and he ran to his mother to inform her that "Edward's using potty words!" Oops. What can I say? He meant it with love?

Before I go further, I suppose I should confess that most of my boys' cutest moments have nothing at all to do with me. Neither Robert's stolid bravery nor Edward's excessive caution are mine; neither Robert's cleverness nor Edward's elephant-like memory come from me. And some of the craziest, most adorable things Edward says on occasion leave me laughing while wondering where on the planet he picked them up.

***
Robert enthusiastically upends the bin containing all of our train track pieces, and great is the clash! thereof. Edward looks at the mess and states, with arms akimbo and an air of endless long-suffering and patience: "Oh, Robert. You are being quite the stinker. I'm going to have to talk to Mom about this." Robert, not to be cowed by threats, only giggles at his own cleverness.
***
Heading out the door, Edward turns to me and says: "Bye, Mom! Peace out!"
***

Still, many of the things they say are reflections, like it or not. And not all of the parental flaws they reflect are quite so endearing as a lack of "please" and an abundance of "thank-yous." My children both reflect me and reflect on me -- reflect on all my frustrations, spite, and folly. Edward more and more often says things that wound me to the heart, because they are reflections of what I consider to be my least admirable qualities as a parent. It hurts me when I recognize some of the mean things I have said in times of stress now coming out of Edward's mouth: how can I expect my boys to be loving, compassionate, and empathetic if I myself am so judgmental, controlling, and unkind?

***
Walking to the silver car on our way to do some errands, we inevitably pass the green car, which has been back from the shop for over a month after being the tragic victim of a hit-and-run. Edward takes a moment to reflect: "The green car's all better! But someone was very naughty: someone wasn't very nice to the green car."
***
Settling himself down to play with his trains, Edward turns to Robert and lectures: "Robert, I'm playing with my trains. Don't grab them, or you have to play by yourself in your room!"
***

These moments hurt me, and I always promise myself that I will do better next time: if such words hurt me, how much more must they have hurt my boys when they were uttered! I wish I were the patient, considerate, and sharing person that I want my boys to be. Unfortunately, my own children know exactly what to say and do to bring out the best and the worst my character has to offer. Even when I try so hard to stay calm and in charge of my emotions, my weaknesses are still lurking beneath the surface until their time comes. And my boys are always there to see when it does.

Take, for instance, my semi-debilitating fear of bugs. I hate the things: coming unexpectedly upon a spider has been known to make me cry for an hour. But I don't want my boys to have that fear. And so I try conscientiously not to shriek or cry out when I encounter the creepy-crawly things in the presence of Edward and Robert -- not an easy task when you consider how frequently the nasty little critters pop out of nowhere at you. I try to be encouraging when Edward shows me a ladybug he has picked up, or when Robert pokes at a dead beetle ("bee-boh"), but my distaste is not easily quelled. How long before their natural curiosity and wonder is replaced by my neurotic fear?

***
When Edward and Robert excitedly call me out to the patio to look at a "wasp" which turns out to be a cicada, I undo three years of hard work in bug-appreciation lessons. I join the two in a crouch around the giant insect, and comment collectedly on how big it is just as it takes off with a loud crick-ck-ck-ck-ck-ck. I jump, but manage to keep myself from crying out. Unfortunately, that silence isn't enough: Robert, watching in wonder as the cicada flies off, notices my short-lived moment of mute panic. He considers my features briefly, then scrunches up his face and cries in adopted fear at the scary bug.
***

My personal weaknesses notwithstanding, not all of the "reflections" I observe in Edward and Robert  are of my negative "qualities." Traits I find silly or no-big-deal in myself come out as tender and sweet when I see them in my boys. For all that I usually show love to my boys, I do not often tell them "I love you." It is so beautiful when their reflections of my behavior let me know that, even if I don't use the words as often as I should, they know that I love them in spite of  my fears, my weaknesses, and my many other shortcomings.

***
Robert, playing quietly with a car, gets up suddenly and runs to my side as I fold laundry. I smile at him, and he leans forward to deposit a wet kiss on my cheek. "A kih!" He tells me --just in case I didn't understand what he was doing -- before going back to play with his toys.
***
Edward and I are in the kitchen getting some milk for Edward, when we hear a crash from the other room. Rushing out to see what has happened, Edward calls out: "Robert! Are you okay? What happened, Snoof?" He bends over his dazed brother, rubs his head gently, and gives him a soft kiss on the forehead.
***

My boys are both sweet, intelligent, loving critters. I wish I could take credit for that, but mostly I just hope my own failings as a parent don't overwhelm their natural goodness. I am so very pleased with, and amazed at them both: I pray that, one day when they can reflect on their years at home with me, they will think well of me, too.