When kid one was four, I put my back out. I needed bed rest but we were house hunting, which meant a lot more driving than my poor, tender back could take.
We were returning from a viewing and gave the boys drinks, but it was too close to dinner time. Kid one chugged his and a few minutes later, “Daddy, I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit.”
Yes, at four years old he said “vomit,” his vocabulary has always been advanced.
I pulled off the highway and into the nearest parking lot, got out, opened his door, reached in to help him out of his booster seat and promptly collapsed from the pain.
I caught myself on the car to keep from falling on him, and he got out so worried about me he forgot about being carsick. Then he took my hand and walked me a block up the street to the drugstore. At four years old he wanted to take care of me.
Now, at 15, he’s growing into a terrific young man whom I just dropped off at the train station where he is taking care of his grandparents, and little brothers, as they ride into Toronto.
My mother in law has never been on the train in Canada, and was quite nervous about it. Wifey only convinced her to go by promising that the boys would go with.
Kid one stepped up. It’s not about what he does, it’s simply who he is.
I couldn’t be prouder.
In my darkest moments, this is one of the things I focus on to keep me tethered to this earth. He deserves the best, they all do.
And this story illustrates just one reason.