Lou’s View – June 30, 2016
Paul Matthew Turns Two
By Lou Bernard
Sitting in my office at work, writing a column. There’s one about a criminal from 1911 that I’ve been meaning to get to. I pull my files, begin typing. And….
“DA-EE! DA-EE!”
My little boy, Paul Matthew, comes racing into the library. A little bundle of noise and energy, Paul turns two on July first. My wife and I adopted him when he was fourteen hours old, and he’s grown considerably since then. He has not stopped growing, in fact—It had never occurred to me that within two years, he’d already be tall enough to reach my coffee mug on the kitchen counter.
“Hi, little guy. You coming to visit Daddy at work?”
Paul laughs at that. He laughs at a lot of stuff. “Up, Da-ee! Blocks! Up!” Upstairs in the Children’s Library is where the blocks are kept. Clearly, this is his end goal, and Daddy is an idiot for not knowing that.
Paul’s life is now longer than the adoption process itself, which took about a year and a half. Money, background checks, home inspections—It takes time. (If anyone happens to be in the market for adoption, incidentally, I cannot say enough good things about American Adoptions. They’re a wonderful agency who were very supportive.) We had to get photos and video of ourselves, doing wholesome family crap, so that we could be chosen by a birth mom. I had videos taken of me giving tours, on the radio, and geocaching, because all that seems to be what I do most of.
We were matched with a pregnant mom in June of 2014, during Clinton County’s 175th anniversary. For a while, I was a little concerned that I’d have to leave the county in mid-parade, but Paul generously waited to be born during a slow period when I had nothing scheduled. We got the call the day before, and began driving down to New Orleans.
Paul was born at 7:17 on July first, and we arrived about nine-thirty that night. I first held him when he was fourteen hours old, this helpless little guy who mostly slept a lot. And as he grew, he hit all the milestones. First bath. First solid food. First steps. He’s pretty much always in the top size percentile for his age—Right now, at age two, his clothes are made for four-year-olds. (And will someone please explain to me why there are two-year-old clothes, and twenty-four-month old clothes, and why they seem to be different things? What the hell is that?)
We watched him grow, his developing little personality. His favorite song is what he calls “Lie Lie,” which you might know as Paul Simon’s “The Boxer.” He’ll ask for it repeatedly. “Lie Lie!” I’ll play the song, and he sings along: “Lie la lie, lie la lie lie….” And then two minutes later: “Lie Lie!”
His favorite color is green. At least, I assume it is. It’s what he says about everything: “Geen.” You can point to anything, and ask what color it is. Doesn’t matter if it’s a stop sign. “What color is that, Paul?” “Been.”
He’s become quite an entertaining little guy, running around the house. I hear him wake up in the morning, and rattle off every word he knows, just to keep in practice. “Da-ee. Mama. Sissy. Duke. Gwen. Up. Down. Bread. No. Yiy. Sit.”
Every day, he learns something new. A new word, a new concept. He’s getting the idea of counting, though the execution somewhat evades him. He’ll stack up his blocks—The kid’s pretty impressive with the blocks; I’ve seen him stack them a couple of feet high—And then count them. He’ll point at the blocks and say,”One eight six six nine eight ten.” He’s getting there.
And still growing. He’s already learning new things—He’s gotten better at the counting between the time I wrote this and the time I submit it for publication. And I’m proud of him. And I’m a little sad, too.
My little guy. Two years old. With me, watching him and simultaneously wanting to see what comes next, and wanting each moment to last forever. It’s hard now to remember a time when he wasn’t in my world.
