Heart in His Pocket

If my daughter E-Grrrl wears her heart on her sleeve, my son A's is tucked in his pocket. He is as reserved and serious as she is open and bubbly. When I pull A’s jeans out of the hamper and empty the pockets, I collect pieces of all that is important to him. There are smooth stones and mottled ones with interesting colors, rich brown acorns as alluring as chocolates, acorn tops used for whistles, candy wrappers from secret purchases he made with the change he pilfered from my dresser, a hand-drawn diagram of a cage he plans to build for his hamster, a note that he didn’t have the courage to deliver to the girl he likes.

A is endlessly curious about the natural world, distracted by ladybugs eating aphids on a wildflower, the kittens hiding in a jumble of evergreens, the shiny rock glinting next to the curb, the crabapples on the tree by the bus stop, the soft dirt begging for a shovel and bit of exploration, the straight stick waiting for his pocket knife.

At 10, A is also the ultimate recycler (think “trash picker.”) He rescues abandoned scraps of lumber, the rubber from a discarded windshield wiper, the cardboard tubes from the paper towels, pieces of wire, scraps of mesh, and lengths of twine and rope. All these found objects are re-purposed in his assorted building projects, executed in the basement using his Popular Mechanics tool set and whatever he can purloin from his father’s toolbox.

His boxes of K’nex and Legos sit idle while he fashions catapults from wire coat hangers, arrows from strips of bamboo, bows from the springy branches in the back yard, and boats from milk cartons or foil and plastic wrap. I buy tape, glue, rubber bands, and paperclips the way some families buy milk and bread. He disassembles flashlights for their bulbs or cases, retractable pens for their miniature springs, and uses pencils as dowels. Nothing in the house escapes Andrew’s clutches. His hands are always busy—and often dirty.

It can be frustrating to keep him on task or disengage him from one of his projects. When he sets his mind to something, there’s no peace until it’s accomplished. A has his own priorities and sometimes it feels we’re engaged in endless tug of wars between his desire to get his “work” done and our need to get out the door, have him finish homework, or take care of some chores at home. Sometimes we can laugh about his single-mindedness, sometimes we want to bang our heads against the wall, but despite the challenges, I must admit I admire his passion for life, his ingenuity, his creative temperament.  Every time I empty his pockets and line the contents on top of the washer, I’m grateful for my personal natural wonder--my son.

© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

October 4, 2005