The Oscar to My Felix

They say that when we become parents, we are paid back for the stress we inflicted on our parents. I don't have a problem with that -- I did not cause much trouble as a child (not much). However, I do take issue with the notion that I should suffer for the stress my husband inflicted on his parents. There doesn't seem to be a way around it, though.

Meet Son 2, born in 1996 -- the one that is most like his dad. His dad still calls him "Little G" even though he is taller than all the rest of us now. His first sentence? "I cute!" First greeting: "Hello, Pretty Momma," in Elvis-like imitation of Johnny Bravo. And his first protest: "Why do I have to do everything?" This last when he was three and tasked with putting his toys away. It is the main question he has hung onto all these years, too, wielding it at the slightest whiff of impending work.

G is very intelligent, not particularly academically-oriented (although he does maintain good grades), and fanatical about sports (especially anything Crimson Tide). He was commentating on football, basketball, and baseball from his dad's lap in the recliner as soon as he could talk, and he has an uncanny ability to remember anything he sees or hears on ESPN. He thinks and feels deeply and cares very much about people, judging very harshly those who mistreat others. He is easily distracted, impetuous, short-tempered, highly opinionated, and good-naturedly ornery.

If D is my Felix (see previous post), then G is most definitely my Oscar. He is absolutely abstract-random (Gregorc's terminology). He has an eye for fashion and cares about which clothes he wears, but (different from his dad here) he hasn't yet figured out how to -- or that he can -- manage his "stuff." Or maybe he just doesn't care. Either way, his room is, as Sheldon from Big Bang Theory says of Penny's apartment, "a swirling vortex of entropy," and as he enters the house and moves toward his room, he leaves behind him a trail of shed clothes, open drawers and cabinets, half-empty Gatorade bottles, dirty dishes, and empty snack packaging. He bounces from one activity/event to the next with little planning, and when he leaves, the trail remains as evidence of his having been home.

Extremely clever and witty, G is able to "think on his feet" in a way I've never mastered. He is articulate and socially savvy, with my penchant for sarcasm, especially when riled. His observations about people and life are eerily precocious and always good for a laugh.

One time, we left a couple's (good friends) house, having been there while Ben helped them with a particularly frustrating home decorating project that caused some friction between the couple. After we got in the car and pulled away, 11-year-old G wryly observed, “Man, those people are pretty free with the f-bombs, aren’t they?”

Another time, also when he was about 11, he was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework. His dad was in the kitchen having just eaten, and I was nearby sitting on the sofa in the living room enjoying the unusual quiet. Suddenly, Ben let out one of his more disgustingly horrid belches (far from an unusual occurrence in our house), and I reacted in revulsion with my usual, “Good lord!” G, on the other hand, very deliberately set down his pencil, made eye contact with me, then looked over at his dad -- calmly and completely seriously -- and pointedly said, “I don’t know how she sleeps in the same bed with you.”

It wasn't long after this that the boy hit puberty, thus catching up with his dad in terms of maturity, so now they (the apple and the tree) are in cahoots to see who can repulse me more with their bodily expulsions.

*Sigh.*
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