There I was. The mother of a third boy. Not quite four weeks after Dylan's arrival. Taking in the beauty of that moment when a father holds his child in his arms and blesses him before the congregation of family and supporters. That is to say, I was trying to hone in on the sublime while I heard Eric's words and simultaneously worked to calm a three year old who was broken hearted because:
1. We had forgotten to bring the water bottle that he had decided was the most necessary thing in the world for his survival that Sunday. Wailing and gnashing of teeth--even promises of the magical church water fountain to no avail.
2. He was surely coming down from the company high from the influx of two sets of grandparents, an uncle, aunt and doting cousins in our house not to mention a newborn who would not be leaving.
3. And after diffusing shrieks and full body thumps on the floor of a classroom, it dawned on me that in the tango of getting ready for church, no one had fed the child any lunch.
My firstborn was however finally tame once more sitting next to me at the pew and with sighs of acquiescence and residual sobs accepting each proffered fruit snack--all that I could seem to find with any caloric content in my diaper bag. I have a vague memory of five bags in rapid fire. A record on ripping and consuming by my count.
And Dylan Rhys Chambers was blessed and it was sweet. And then Eric said the words and I heard the words that neither of us were quite expecting, "a love of sport." No, not a love of the arts, or music or nature or animals. A love of sport. I should be grateful. Dylan did return to my arms from his blessing with the name we had agreed upon (not like when Eric's great-great grandfather Orange Warner Chambers gave his grandson a blessing and named him "Orange" because he was doing the blessing--a family name--strange but yes true--but also not the planned on name and probably the reason this man was called "Babe" or sometimes Warner by his family and friends) and I do hope that Dylan will be a good sport, love good laughs and enjoy games and in general be healthy, strong and happy. But am I up for all the love of sports? I had by that point already given up on hair bows, dresses and dolls and pinks and frills. I'd even applauded one of Isaac's first words--"ball" and gladly tossed it back and forth with him. I made sure the boys had a basketball hoop, a soccer goal and various sundry sport items. And then there are football Saturdays. But that all paled in the light of the latest fatherly proclamation. Sigh. I saw the dust caking on the Anne of Green Gables complete set and viva la dog-eared copies of play books and little league coaching tips. But I must run because while Dylan might very well love sports more than his mother (not difficult in any regard), he's not currently loving being the recipient of Isaac's wrestling attempts. Isaac is about to sit on his head. Time to blow the whistle on that.
