Wil was an easy-going baby. I had to wake him to eat or he would have slept right through his feeding time. Which makes me chuckle now because his favorite subject is “what’s for dinner.”
Picking up his first Cheerio with a pincher grasp took miles of work. I still remember the day he picked up a singular Cheerio not with his fist, but between his index finger and thumb. Each time Wil picks up a pencil, holds a sheet of paper, or places his fingers on a keyboard, I’m brought back to the celebration of a singular Cheerio.
Wil smiled a lot as a baby, and he still does. He is quick to laugh and I know there is a silly bone in there somewhere. Many of his frustrations, and mine, are in his speech delays. When it was quiet and relaxed at night, just before bedtime, I’d sit on the edge of his bed and we’d talk about his day — which consisted of me asking questions and he’d nod or offer one-word answers. On certain occasions, the tears would flow. It was hard for both of us. He simply couldn’t tell me what hurt him, and the best I could do was guess and give him lots of hugs. Now, when he jumps in the car after school and says, “I had a good day, Mom!” and opens up about his day, it’s as if a tidal wave hurls me back in time to the success of a singular word or a head nod.
Wil’s best-loved school assignment is to write his own stories. Getting him to focus can be a task, but when writing or reading his own story, he’s all about it. And you can be sure each story contains a dose of silly. Wil’s most recent story is about an evil bunny who stole a jack-o-lantern. The evil bunny’s name? Luke Bryan, of course.
When I hear Wil read his own stories, a golden rope grabs hold of my wrist. It pulls me back, twisting, turning, weaving through the memory of stories built before this one. There is no place on this intertwining journey forgotten or unrecognized. Each story has been faithfully pieced together, one upon the other, to stand firmly where we do now.
When Wil finished reading his evil bunny story, he knew the next part of his assignment was to type it. “It’s so long, Mom.”
“It is, Wil, but you can do it. One word at a time.” And so he started, one word at a time. Soon he was in the flow of the story, pausing to laugh at his own words.
Nearly finished typing his story, Wil looked at me astounded and said, “Look how far I’ve come!”
Word-by-word, faithfully written, with pauses to laugh; these are the stories that draw you in, indelibly, time after time.