...For Benjamin, in turning ten

My son will be turning ten on Saturday, a double-digit. It sounds so cliché, but I truly have to say that it seems like just yesterday when Dr. Dunn, delivered him at a healthy seven pounds, seven ounces. Benjamin came into the world on a sunny Monday in March.

With a shock of dark spiked hair to complement a soft newborn face; he was born on 3-13-’00 at 1:13 p.m. (that’s 13:13 army time). He came into the world beating the odds with a threes-pattern. Now, nearly ten years later, he can barely contain himself when we discuss how this number connects with our birthdays—Jim being born on June 3rd (6/3 6-3=3) and me, on August 5th (8 – 5=3).

Our family of three is brighter with Benjamin around and when I see the light reflected in his eyes, eyes that change to a yellow-green in the summer, I thank God for all that he is, and for all that he’s sure to become.

When people ask me what Benjamin needs for his birthday, I am at a loss. This is largely due to the fact that if I receive one more battery operated remote control car/toy which will lack charge for roughly as long as the dinosaurs lived, I just may scream.

With all good intentions, his grandparents brandish the shiny and large China-made toys with enthusiasm and a desire to please. Meanwhile, my husband and I, feigning our own versions of smiles, plot ways to pawn them off.

With all due respect to the toy making industry, to Santa’s elves, my son does not play with toys. At athlete at heart, he’s just as happy with a trusty old ball. Give him something to bounce, throw, charge, roll on, or ride on; and he’s happy.

In regard to child indulgences—to the ‘needs’ that have become the cornerstone of a nation that has it all—each year, I hold back my lecture on the importance of ‘delaying gratification’. Because it’s going to happen: Someday, a hit of marijuana won’t be enough for our sweet soda sipping children and they’ll want a snort of cocaine to inflict a quicker high.

So I exaggerate slightly.

Yet still, I can’t help but rebel to the waterfall of unnecessary party items that have soaked our stores. Earlier this week, I shopped for a few simple cake decorating supplies. Little did I know that I would be bombarded by enough fandoogles to sustain an army of whos down in who-ville. There were fondants and tubes and mists and jujubes; tinkers and tankers, sprinkles and clankers. Gosh, if I wanted to bake a cake that looks as though it popped out of a Dr. Seuss cookbook, I’d hire his staff to bake it for me. Or, better yet, I’d contact my cousin, Karen, who’s got everyone beat.

Not being one to conform to cake molds, let alone molds of any sort, I leave the aisle, banking on my imagination to drive my art project forward one more time. Too much emphasis on one thing, I must admit, makes me suspicious and I feel as though I’m back in line with the Disney rides that I don’t care to wait for.

There is something contrived about the enormity of ‘things’, no?

Unconvinced, a hovering party ghost whispers to me that kids need this stuff (or perhaps it was the store clerk). I raise a fist and challenge the spirit. I respectfully disagree.

My disillusioned self takes me to the piñata section. A meat market of dangling animals find my upward gaze and I envision Benjamin, highly athletic, taking a swing at the neck of a hanging donkey. Something seems inherently wrong with the thirty dollar notion. I decide against the piñata.

The next party row hosts a variety of party favor collections: fake-chocolate soccer balls, tiny golfers, and assortments of sugar concoctions that are processed enough to plug the main artery of a guinea pig. My mind begins to wander… to past days when I have thrown such candy straight into the trash.

Are we really doing our children any ‘favors’ by offering them a pile of junk at the door? I think not, it’s just garbage with a dollar sign, in my opinion.

All sour talk aside, for Benjamin’s ten year old birthday, what I’m hoping for cannot be bought, wrapped, boxed, or swung at. What I’m hoping for…is that my son, for all of his years, will receive the love and kindness that he so generously gives.

The first time he saw me cry, he was a sturdy two and a half year old, and only a few feet high. But his heart, even then, was larger than life.

“Do you want a glass of water, Mommy? How about a nice drink?” I can hear his pip-squeak voice now. It was a voice that cared.

To this day, Benjamin and I seem to share that same connection, reading each other’s thoughts, wanting to make things better. For his ten year old birthday, I’m hoping that Benjamin will receive the empathy that he so naturally gives.

Along with empathy, Benjamin is a kid with desire. Be it on the field, in his classroom, or atop a mountain, Benjamin has the desire to push himself to new limits. I’m hoping that he’ll remember, as a ten year old, that’s it’s okay to fall, to throw four balls at the mound, or to fumble a football. Competition is about knowing how to lose and win; it’s about believing that the spirit that lies within your own heart is more powerful than anyone else’s approval.

This year, along with smoking me in his four mile runs (one day he’ll catch me in a sprint); I’m hoping that my beautiful son, with the light in his eyes, will love himself even more than he loves life.

Benjamin entered the world with the sun. May it shine back down upon him, each and every day.