Happy Birthday Chris

                                              RAISING CHRIS, the early years

My son is now 41 years old.  He is a well-known Oroville resident.  I have avoided mentioning him to spare him any embarrassment. However, this column is a harsh mistress and he hasn’t called me lately, so he’s going down.

Chris’ birth was very traumatic. I awoke with an episiotomy that extended to my coccyx. They handed me this long, hairy creature with two large front teeth. He was no Gerber baby.  I come from a very old family, with menopause and birth occurring simultaneously; consequently, I had never seen a baby.

He didn’t stop crying for nine months.  The doctors said it was colic but oddly, he stopped crying the day I decided to leave my husband and move home with my mother.

It took him forever to become potty trained.  All I thought about for two years was urine and feces. He was very slow to talk. However, by two he had mastered the language. He still pooped in his pants but could discuss his lack of sphincter control.

            When he reached three years old, Chris had become very sophisticated. He could talk me out of my last dollar and flush my toothbrush when he was angry. But his worst trick was when he dyed my mother’s dentures a brilliant shade of blue. My mother was blind. I still can see her unknowing smile.  It’s hard to control an intelligent four-year-old.  Intelligence without logic is dangerous.

            I took him to a traveling circus and we sat right next to the ring.  We were very excited when they began marching in the elephants.  Unbeknownst to many people elephants must get stage fright.  Because before Jumbo entered the ring, he had to relieve himself.  A huge gushing torrent of pee swished out of the monster.  I heard a loud horrified keening coming from my son as he pulled his feet up to escape drowning in the growing puddle.   Pachyderm phobia anyone?

            I don’t know if the above incident brought on the pyromania but it’s possible.  Luckily, he was a restrained firebug.  I would get up in the morning and find a glass jar on the stovetop spewing out molten peanut butter.  Or I would look in the oven and find his sneakers cooking.  Usually his ‘experiments’ were conducted in the fireplace.  Luckily, he outgrew this phase at about eight years old.

            He began deciding he was a big boy at around five.  He would not accompany me into the ladies room after that age.  I hated to let him go into the men’s room unprotected, but I had to.  We were traveling back from visiting my sister when Chris decided it was restroom time.  I stopped at a large truck stop and led him to the men’s room.  He had just trotted in when an entire group of Hells Angels motorcycle guys dismounted and entered the restroom.  I waited outside the door, hoping I wouldn’t have to break inside and kill someone when I heard hysterical laughter.  Chris came out with a look of wonder on his face and as the men filed out laughing he said, “Mom their pee pee’s are this big,” with an expanse of at least a foot between his little hands.

            It seems boys have a predilection with certain anatomical parts.  He was about seven when he came running up the back stairs asking for a ruler.  I was encouraged, thinking that perhaps he is displaying engineering tendencies.  He was a very social boy so he had about five friends playing under the back porch.  I said I have a 12 inch ruler or a yardstick.  He immediately chose the yardstick and went outside.  It got too quiet so I checked, there he and his friends were measuring their equipment with the yardstick.  No engineering degree likely.

            He lives only 1 mile from home, close enough to come and stare into the refrigerator when he drops off my grandson for a play day.

            I have learned much more from him than he ever learned from me. I’m proud to be his mother.  Now Chris, use your fancy phone and call me!