“Mom, listen to this,” my little brown-eyed boy confessed both excitedly and nervously, “I wrote a poem.”   I laid down on his bed, resting my head against the pillow-y soft life-sized crocodile that is his sleeping companion.

“It’s kind of sad,” he warned me, “but happy, too.”  He searched my face for approval to begin.  He wanted and needed my full attention.  Enraptured, I gave it to him.

ALIVE
by Kamden Melton

“If you could only see me one last time.

If you could only hear my rhythm and rhyme.

If you could only let me hear laughter and chime.

Then you would know…I am alive.

I am alive through your memories of me.

I am alive, leave me be.

I am alive through your laughter and through joy.

So keep me alive – no tears, no sorrow.

Keep me alive because there IS a tomorrow.

No, sadness shan’t prevail for

Yesterday is history

Tomorrow is unknown

But today is a gift

And that’s why it’s called

The Present.”

He came to a soft, slow close, paused, then finally looked at me for a response.  I told him how lovely, how heartfelt and moving the poem truly was.  How brilliant he is.  I encouraged him to put it to music, for it seemed to lend itself to a song.

“Gingers got no souls.”

What?????  Images of Gilligan, Marianne and Ginger immediately filled my brain.

“When you dropped me off at soccer, the boys on the team asked if you were my mom.  I said, ‘yeah.’ Then they said, ‘Gingers got no souls.’”

Aside from the atrocious grammar, I was dumbfounded that this is what 13-year old boys would say about another kids’ mom.  Stammering for something to say to my son in (my?) defense, he chimed in, “Don’t worry, mom, I told them it was not your real hair color.”

“What????”  I was momentarily aghast, then I immediately broke out laughing, realizing that my teenage son had defended my soul.

The other evening I was relaxing, reading a book.  I could not see my son, Kamden, in the other room, but I could hear him banging and jumping about.  “Huuuummmmmph!” I heard him say over and over again each time followed by a very loud THUD!

I shook my head and rolled my eyes.  I did not want to even imagine what he might be up to.  And at this point, I thought to myself, he is old enough to know better.  If he gets hurt, that will be the last time he does whatever he is doing.  Cynical parenting at it’s finest.

“HHHHUuuuuuuuummmmmppppphhhhhhh!”  THUD!

‘Huuuuuummmmmmppphphpphphphhphphphp!” THUD!

“HHHHuuuuuuummmmmmpphphphphp!! THUD!

Over and over.  Just at the moment when I did not think I could possibly ignore it for one more nano second, the THUD! was followed with a very triumphant, “Conquered!”

“What?” I called, still not wanting to move from my cynical relaxed spot.

“I conquered it!” Kamden called out victoriously.

Laughing to myself, I had to get up and see what it was he had conquered.

I entered the kitchen and there was no mess.  Nothing out of order.  I looked at him quizzically.  He stood smiling, so very proud of himself.  “Let me see what you conquered,” I asked.

With that he backed up, took in a deep breath, launched into two big steps and lept up toward the ceiling.  Which he touched.  “There.  I did it again.  I conquered it.”

Taking his head in my hands, I looked deep into his chocolatey brown eyes.  “Yes, you did.”   Trying over and over.  Setting a goal and not giving up until he achieved it.  Whether it be snapping, jumping to touch a ceiling, multiplication facts, or a 6 minute mile, kids just keep pressing on, jumping up, over and over and over again until it is conquered.  Then they move on to the next.  Now that is inspirational.

At the end of crawling on knees through mud tunnels, running through waist deep disgusting lagoons, and running for 3.1 miles at the OC Mud Run, Kendall made a profound observation.  ”You know mom,” he said, “even though you have been running and training and all I have been doing is sleeping, I did not need to stop during the Mud Run.  You did.”

I looked at him silently, contemplating his face.  There was no malice or teasing.  It was simply an observation on his part.  And, it was embarrassingly true.  ”It just proves,” he continued, “that sleep is the best medicine.”  I thought about this while I studied his face and realized he was absolutely right.  If I scheduled my life around the necessary amount of sleep, I am certain my life would be more, more, what? Stable? Predictable? Peaceful? Manageable?  I can’t find the right word – maybe because maybe there isn’t just one.  Maybe because there are so many words that would apply if I slept more.  And maybe because I am just too tired to think.

“I am not Grumpy!”
-Paris

“My eyes are open, but my mind is shut.”
-Kamden