Raise Your Flags

Today is my third son's birthday. Son number three.

The heir, the spare, and the nobody cares.

I can never think of my three oldest sons without the image of the three sets of feet tapping along to the tune of the tv show My Three Sons.

Today he is eight years old.

I remember how I was convinced he was going to be a girl. There was no doubt in my mind at all. When they said "It's a boy!" I thought they were joking. All the nurses were mildly disturbed that I kept saying, "You're joking, right?"

I gave him my last name as his middle name. I had always thought I would pass it on to a daughter. After being in labor with my son I announced I was never doing that again and gave him the name.

I remember Rob bringing his two older brothers to the hospital to meet him. They were 29 months old and 15 months old.

I remember having three different sized diapers in my house. Those were the hardest days of my life.

I remember potty training my eldest son later on in the summer. Son number two potty trained himself shortly thereafter.

I remember what a sweet personality my third son had and how he never cried. In an effort to make up for lost time, he now whines more than I ever thought was humanly possible.

I remember thinking I had it all figured out. It would take two more sons after him to show me that what I had figured out was humility and a taste for my own words.

I remember my mother in law telling me I should tape his ears down to "train" them not to stick out. I said that at least if he wore glasses we knew they would be able to stay up. Thankfully his head grew into his ears. Now I'm hoping his head grows into his teeth.

I remember that the year he was born his birthday fell on the Saturday before Father's Day. I had hoped he was going to be born on Father's Day since the first two were born on "holidays" and Rob and I both have "holiday" birthdays.

I remember being disappointed until my father in law told me on the phone the next day that it was Flag day. Every year my father in law will tell me it is Flag Day, as if I somehow forget from year to year. This year on Flag day I won't be talking to him. He will be getting his chest cracked open and his heart removed from his body in an effort to unclog his two completely blocked arteries. I look forward to him reminding me again next year.

I remember my son's unbridled love for his pacifier, which lasted for four years.

I remember how when he was potty training he would cheer for himself when he went in the toilet.

I remember how he dropped his pacifier from his mouth into the toilet and screamed as it was flushed away. It happened often. And it never stopped being funny for the rest of us.

He is the quintessential happy go lucky child. He skips around the house and has a penchant for show tunes. Rob thinks he might be gay.

He loves to make up jokes or ask absurd questions in an effort to be funny. (For example: Is it called Minnesota because they sell mini-sodas there?) His laugh is so infectious that we all laugh in spite of ourselves. Or as my 10 year old will say, "I'm not laughing because it is funny. I'm laughing because it is so dumb I can't believe anyone would say that!" But he doesn't care why we laugh, just as long as we do.

The thing that strikes me the most about having a large family is that all our stories are intertwined. It is impossible to talk about one person without delving into a memory of someone else. I sometimes wonder if this is why I have very few memories of my childhood. As an only child there is no one to remember with. No one to say, 'remember when?' No one to help put snippets of memories into a broader context.

My third son was admiring his globe collection the other day and suddenly sighed. He told me he felt like Alexander the Great. And why was that? "Remember when he wept because there was nothing left to conquer? Well, I weep because I look at the globe at all the places I want to go and visit, and there are people already there. There is nowhere left to explore. People are everywhere. I hate that."

I know my son, I know. It's true that sometimes the apple doesn't even fall from the tree at all.

To my third son I say, Happy Birthday. And remember should son number one and his runner up fail to fulfill their duties, the kingdom is all yours. Try not to look so thrilled.