I could leave the girls in the playpen and return two hours later to the same serene scene. With Jimmy, I would glance over after twenty seconds and find he had taken apart the toy it took his father two days to assemble. In his fist were 9 of the 10 screws and on his face a silly grin that said, "I have the tenth screw in my mouth and if you make any sudden moves I'll swallow it!" In my sweetest fairy-godmother voice I would sing-song, "Jimmy, you silly guy, come on and open that gooey little mouth and let Momma see." When I was sure his teeth were disengaged, I would stick my finger in and grope in each cheek and under the tongue that seemed to be everywhere. Drool dripping off my elbow and panic in my heart I'd run to call the pediatrician, and, on the way to the phone barefooted, I'd step on the tenth screw. The agonizing pain registered first as relief, then quickly turned to `the urge to kill'. But then I'd look at him and think, "he's only two, he couldn't have planned it this way — could he?" Round Two to Jimmy!
The next round was over dressing himself. I'd choose his outfit and present it to him like a valet to a king. Nope! Not acceptable! The sox were mates, the pants were clean and the shirt blended too well. I could try wrestling him down or I could let him go to the drawer and select his own outfit for the day (or hour as it usually turned out). In the beginning this method wasn't too bad. He'd dress himself and I just wouldn't look at him all day. This became our routine until the day I took him to Sears. While browsing through one of the racks a voice belonging to his pre-school teacher said, "Well, hello there, Jimmy." I glanced down at Jimmy and realized he had his shirt on inside out and backwards, pants the other end of the pattern spectrum from his shirt (fly open) and two different sox. I was mortified and speechless. If I acted surprised and tried to apologize for his ensemble she would know that I have nothing to do with him in the mornings. If I said nothing she would think I picked out the outfit. What a blow to my pride! If I tried to explain his attire I was afraid he'd pipe in something like: "I wear this all the time, Mom" — compounding my embarrassment. And besides I wasn't sure what I would be apologizing for — he was proud as could be 'cause he was dressed in his `favorite shirt' and so excited at seeing her that... Round Three again went to Jimmy.
His `favorite shirt' was an issue in itself. It was a blue T-shirt with yellow and red stripes. He loved that shirt so much he wore it every single day. But I never saw it in the wash, and after a few weeks I inquired as to the whereabouts of the shirt at night. He refused to tell me. All I know is every morning he'd have it on again. When I could talk him into getting it washed, he would personally throw it in the washing machine, and then sit patiently and inform me the minute the washer shut off that it was ready for the dryer. The `off' buzz of the dryer was still rasping in the air and Jimmy already had the shirt back on, leaving the rest of the clothes looking like a tornado had struck. As time passed, it seemed he grew careless and would leave his shirt in sight over night. The thought would cross my mind to snatch it while he was sleeping — but something inside told me I was being tested. Being tested by a four year old. Round Four — Jimmy's!
When their bedroom became too unsightly, his sister roped off her half and refused to acknowledge he was her brother. When he needed something you would hear this mad scrambling upstairs...paper, string, rocks, assorted parts of games would fly through the air and suddenly he'd emerge with the article in his hand looking very smug as if to say, "I bet you thought I couldn't find it." His teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up and he said, "a junkman 'cause they have all that wonderful stuff." So I had a choice— either I could throw out all the garbage in his room and make it presentable, or I could allow him to keep his `wonderful stuff' and see him happy. Round Five — Yep! Jimmy.
When we go to a museum, Jimmy is always followed around by a parade of guards who anticipate his enthusiasm turning into a forbidden `touch' and he doesn't disappoint them. Going home in the car, he relates with gusto to his envious sisters what Abraham Lincoln's nose felt like. Rules that went unquestioned by the girls got challenged by Jimmy. "Why can't I jump in the house? or down all the stairs? slide down the banister? put my vitamin C tablets in my liver sausage? share my sucker with the dog if I don't care about germs? belch out loud if I say excuse me?" When I ask him "WHY do you have to run, jump, hop, leap, kick or fling yourself on everything," he says: "because it's fun, don't you ever want to do it, Mom?" And I guess I have to admit it sure does look like fun! Round Six (containing all that was sacred or forbidden from my childhood) I forfeit to Jimmy.
A friend of ours played a word game with him for ten minutes before I entered the room and informed him Jimmy couldn't read. Sheepishly I watched as the game ended with Jimmy winning. And when he told me the black kids on the block were nasty and mean and he didn't want to play with them, I became very upset. I tried to think of how I would teach him about equality and brotherhood. And while I was working up this fine lecture he became friends with the black kids on the next block who were `really neato guys'. So the entire `adult world' lost Round Seven.
The room with the screams is where I'll find him. "Mom, you've just got to do something about Jimmy." "Mom, make him stop...get him out of our room...take him with you...make him go to his friend's house." The one I respond to immediately is: "Mom, come quick!" because on occasion it has meant Jimmy was holding up the dining room table after one of the legs "just fell OFF!?!!" Or he has just added the final ingredient to an experiment that erupted in goo foaming up and out of the pop bottle, onto the counter, down into the drawers (which were opened and used as steps), and over the floor. Or Jimmy squealing with delight because "it worked! it worked!" I wanted to choke him but I didn't because inside I felt so proud because it really did work! But then with an uneasy feeling I would watch him dance off confidently...to experiment again. That round I surrendered to future potential.
His sisters call him `pest,' his father calls him `JAMES!,' his grandmother, `active,' his teachers, `unique'. The world numbers, grades, classifies and qualifies him. But will anyone ever love him like his mother? Probably not, because through Jimmy I am becoming more aware of who I started out as — free, beautiful and innocent. And each time I lose a battle with Jimmy I gain a victory within myself.
So, thank you children, each and every single one of you, for being here. And never mind the way things gets scored. In our own way, we're all winners.