"I met a guy," Cork said when she called to tell me she was coming to visit me. "Can I bring him?"
In the dozen prior years I had known Cork, she had never had a boyfriend. If she wanted to bring her then boyfriend (now current husband) to St. Louis to visit me, I was all on board.
When Derek and Cork came to St. Louis, we spent an afternoon at the Saint Louis Science Center. We didn't hit the science center for the Boy, but rather to keep Claire-Adele (then age two) occupied instead of being cooped up in the house with a newborn.
At the Science Center, the five of us went to an IMAX movie about Lewis and Clark or Shackleton, which freaked Claire-Adele out. I can't remember the exact movie, but there was lots of water and boats in perilous situations. I had to get Claire-Adele out of there, and Derek graciously offered to take the Boy while I helped Claire-Adele settle down.
I take Claire-Adele. After an hour or so, the movie ended, and Derek and Cork were no where to be seen. This was my new baby who hadn't been out of earshot or my body for the previous ten months. "Where are they with my baby?" I was getting a little freaked out that the Boy wasn't within arms reach. A little anxiety attack was coming on. Finally, I ran into Cork and Derek with the Boy. This guy was pushing the stroller, puffing out his chest. He was using my kid to show Cork was a loving and attentive father he would someday be. I asked for the Boy back, and Derek said he was happy to keep an eye on the baby and he said, no, he was fine, it was all good, and they were off again. I guess his plan worked because now they have two kids of their own, and I am still scarred by my infant being dragged around the science center by someone I didn't know.
Sixteen years later, I am revisited by that panicky feeling of not knowing where my son is. I've already had one kid leave, but she left on her own, willingly and as expected.
I am going to Montana next week to see the Boy. Jack got to spend a few days with the Boy on a father-son retreat over Labor Day.
"He has really grown a lot. It will be good for you to see him and have some time with him," Jack said. "You will feel better after spending a few days with one-on-one time with him."
I hope Jack is right. In the meantime, I'm back at the house, in the Lego room while Jack is at a work dinner, trying to rebuild a Technic dune buggy.
Years ago, I thought if the Boy ever had an untimely death, I'd rebuild all of his Lego sets and give half of them away to his friends. I haven't reach that level of anguish yet, but I am closer than I'd like to be.
For those of you who don't know, the Boy is a Lego fan. He played with Duplos when he was toddler, his first personal creation being the famous "Stomp Drop Rocket" which looked more like an aircraft carrier than a rocket, but I digress. When he was four, he got the Lego Fire Station. Every birthday and Christmas gift thereafter involved at least one box of little plastic bricks. When the Boy was in elementary school, he'd come home from school, go to the Lego room and build for an hour or two. I'd frequently join him, sorting bricks from old creations that were half assembled, scrapped for parts to build something new. Sometimes the Boy and I would talk. Sometimes we'd listen to music. Other times, I'd be his piece finder, looking for a yellow two by four flat or a dark blue eight by one tall.
The Lego room is where I feel physically closest to the Boy when he isn't here. I could go to a soccer field or ride a ski lift, but that would be kind of random. Instead, I am here, attempting to build a dune buggy.
I wish he were here to help me.
Soon enough. Soon enough.
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