My heather gray NAVY shirt, left over from our days in the military, is wadded up in the corner of one drawer. The family photographs, still in their frames, are stacked neatly in another. His permanently flattened pillow (due possibly to the weight of his giant pig head) still sits on my bed, the least subtle of reminders, resting his head on top of it.
In honor of Mother’s Day, last Thursday, Brae had to share something of mine with his Pre-K class. We settled on a picture of me at his age and he took it to school, sharing it with his classmates, before bringing it back home. Later that day, my mom picked it up from the bar and held it beside his face, studying the differences between us, and declared, “take away the long hair and he’s you.”
There is a point to this story.
Brae’s ENTIRE life, people have held him up as a miniature version of his father. Everyone comments on their likeness, and while I see it (sure, there’s no denying the resemblance, he is his father after all), I fight back an involuntary cringe every time I hear, “Oh! He looks so much like X!” If things had worked out differently, of course I wouldn’t feel the same, but as it is- I hate the comparison.
So even a slight recognition that Brae is starting to favor me (albeit, a biased physical recognition from my mom), was enough to put a smile on my face.
But there is no denying the common traits between the two of them. There are things that Brae will say, or a certain face he’ll make (usually one of disgust), that will stop me in my tracks, because- Yes, that is absolutely his father there. And then he’ll turn around and express his love for Wizard of Oz, or curl his tiny fingers over a piano key, and once again- he’s his mother’s son.
At the beach this past weekend, there was no denying whose influence reigned supreme.
I love the beach. The sand, the sun, the sound of the waves breaking on the shore- all cool with me. I’ll even go so far as to admit the smell of the beach (on less fishy days) is something I enjoy.
I do not like the ocean.
I know, it’s kind of a weird thing, right? You go to the beach and expect to be near the ocean. And I like sitting by the ocean. I like hearing the ocean. I can even tolerate the freezing temperature of May’s Atlantic lapping at my toes. But I don’t swim in it. Ever.
And here is where Brae may as well be wearing a dirty mechanic’s shirt and clutching a pack of Bud Light. Because I do not readily encourage his love of ocean water. That came from….someone else.
He spent almost the entire weekend in the water.
My mother pulled him around on a boogie board for two days. He was knocked off of it more times than I can count, but every time, he stood up, shook off the excess water, and hopped back on. I grinned from the shore and saluted him with one sandy hand.
The rest of my family, relatives who had all stayed in Melbourne Beach with us, tried to persuade me to come in. But I had better things to do.
Like build the most bad ass sandcastle this side of the Atlantic. I even convinced Brae to join in on the salt-waterless fun.
Sadly, no camera was powerful enough to capture the full glory of my sandcastle.
(I'm a little embarrassed by how wimpy it looks here.)
Our whole weekend was a series of dripping wet and drying off, with one glorious nap in between. And on the last day there, a few hours before checking out, Brae raced to my side and pulled me with him towards the water.
"Just your toes, Mama?"
So I waded in, all the way up to my ankles...
and then my thighs....
and held his hand as he jumped over the crashing waves.
I was gritting my teeth as each turd brown wave lapped at my stomach. Unidentifiable floating objects brushed against my leg and Brae laughed hysterically at my side, as I flung seaweed out further into the ocean.
But he was laughing. And right then, having a parent that would share in his love of the sea (and all it's dirty fish pooping inhabitants) was all that mattered*.
And that was good enough for me.
* Except for sand boobs, those matter too.
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