When Branson, my second son, was still a rounded, blop of mush, I thought he would become the happiest little guy to ever live. He was circular and plump and he had a hardy laugh to match. He was rarely fussy and seemed to love life – and me as much as anything.
He was busy. He was. But that was OK with me and he in fact became so busy that we started calling him, “the man with a plan.” A happy man with big plans.
Lately he has been anything but happy. For reasons I have not yet fully discovered, happiness eludes him, which means I am not fully happy either.
Yesterday the kids and I met the cousins at the pumpkin patch.
It was only 97 hundred degrees.
It was worth the dust and the sweat to me, because it is a tradition. And because if my little Branson is busy, then he is seems to be a bit more content.
After we had picked pumpkins, and rode the hay ride, and played and ate, we were ready to go. On our walk to the car Branson was explaining to me that when we got home he was going to carve his pumpkin. And I knew he was because the kid needs no “down time”. His face was pink with heat and his hair was damp with perspiration but he was already making his next plans. I explained to him that if he carved today then his gourd would be rotten and shriveled before Halloween.
His response, “I don’t care Mom.” And he didn’t.
I hadn’t even unloaded the car and the sleeping baby before he was on the computer in search of a template. I left him to his plans and laid down by the baby because I, on the other hand, do need down time.
When I came in the kitchen an hour later the mess that met my eyes was unholy. I would have taken a picture if I hadn’t been shocked motionless by the sight.
Pumpkin guts and innards were everywhere. Stuck to everything. Dripping off the rafters. Crusted onto the surfaces.
And then in the midst of it: I spotted Jack.
Jack the pumpkin. Nearly perfect though he was fashioned by the hands of a mere 8 year old.
I came to, found Branson and asked him if he had carved the pumpkin alone. He gave me a typical Branson response, “Yeah and it looks horrible.”
I was holding Jack in my palms and said carefully,
“No he isn’t Branson, he’s amazing.”
And then I propped him near the window for a picture.
And for a second, I thought I spotted happy in Bransons eyes. I thought I felt it in his chest, I think I even saw a glimmer of my hardy, round face baby and I think happy was there, even if it was fleeting.
I may not ever know exactly what is swirling around in my little boys soul, I may not ever know exactly how to help him, I may not ever figure out why he needs something to do or work on or play with, every single moment of his waking life, I cant figure out what we’re missing or not doing. I don’t know why he is prone to raging ear infections amongst other bodily mal-functions that beat at his self esteem. I don’t know why he takes his frustrations out on me.
Me.
The person who loves him more than life it’s self. The person who would give up every comfort and every luxury to afford him even the smallest relief.
But what I do know is that he is like Jack.
Nearly perfect.
Fashioned by Heaven and by mere mortal parents that cherish him.
He is my little man with a plan, and I am determine to find out what that plan is.
And when he finds happy again, I will be right there…cheering, helping, snapping pictures and even cleaning up the messes left behind.
And in the mean time…I’ll do the same.