Sometimes It Takes a Minute to Wake Up

Ruben has always pointed with his middle finger, ever since he had hand strength, which should be called paw strength because Ruben has paws. Little olive-skinned paws with dimples on the back of each finger, and an unctuous pad of fat on the back. They are too cute and unserious to be hands. When Ruben gets excited, he likes to point his two middle fingers up at the ceiling and shout, “Oh yeah, oh yeah.” I know now, because he’s been around for three years, that he prefers his middle finger to his pointer. It’s just more comfortable for him. But initially I took it personally.

Ruben came out silent and purple. Something about his C-section birth or my Lexapro made him take a minute to wake up. That minute felt like 47 years, and it started us off on shaky ground. I worried that Ruben was too small, too red, too loud, too quiet. Was his head the right shape or the wrong shape? Was he too hot or too cold? Everything, with Rube, I fretted about.

It was for all these reasons that I thought it made sense he was giving me the middle finger. One of the first places I took Ruben alone was to see the sailboats on Lake Michigan, if only so I was not the only person who felt like I was out to sea. Even though this phrase should be out to lake. I thought he was unintentionally flipping me off because he wanted a mom who knew what she was doing, and little did he know at the time, so did I.

How come I could look at his brother Leon and not make big, huge eyes when he had a fever, a bump, or a bruise? There was no rushing Leon to the doctor, or to his grandpa who is also a doctor, to check on something that was, of course, nothing. Ruben was giving me the finger for the thousandth time because I interrupted his programs or his game of banging a pan. I interrupted because of an anxiety in my chest that only quells by getting to know someone and settling into being their mom. It took Ruben a minute to wake up when he was born. It took me about two and a half years.

This past weekend Ruben turned three, and he got very mad because he wanted to change his face paint to match his brother’s. He collapsed his little body into mine and came running to me because I was the only person who would understand how frustrating it is when you decide you want Pikachu face paint, but then your big brother gets Raichu face paint, and suddenly everything you always wanted has changed. I get that because I know Ruben now. I know Ruben likes rice cakes and long-stick cookies aka peuroettes, and that his colds are usually backwards; they start as coughs and then morph into runny noses. I know he is extremely picky about his clothing and wants to be treated like a big boy, unless he is tired and wants to be carried; then he will remind me he is not a baby, but he is just a little guy. Ruben points across the room with one finger when I come to pick him up and runs over and shouts Mommy. That’s my guy.

He’s also a costume kid.