Andrew

My son Andrew was born two days and 44 years ago. I baked some bread for him the day before and took it to his house, where he had been all day because of his foot. But this is not about that, although I do think he should have the foot x-rayed. Not exactly about his foot.

This is about him, Andrew, my fourth child, third son. I should say our son, his dad's and mine.

Yes, my mother was visiting when Andrew was born, and, of course, she had to leave the next day to go home. She had already been with us for more than a week. Can I help it if a baby is born at an inconvenient time? Inconvenient for my mother? No. I think the fault is my oldest child's. He came a week before his due-date. But no one else did, even though we always thought it might happen again.

My mother was in the hospital with me, got to hold Andrew and look him over. She liked him. Of course. He was a healthy, big boy, weighing 9 lbs 10 oz. No cinch to deliver but worth the work. Andrew was good looking and good-natured. I have told elsewhere of my foolish mistakes regarding feeding him. It is too painful to recount, recount again, and so I won't. I will say that Andrew, when his mother finally gave him enough to eat, grew and kept his good nature, for which I am so very grateful. Not kidding about that. What a good boy.

Andrew walked at eight months. Something I thought was pretty remarkable. I have photos to prove it, so don't doubt me.

I'm not sure Andrew would approve of what I'm about to say. But here it is. He is a sweet boy. It's that word, sweet. But I'm his mother, and I can call him a sweet boy. He's a man, I know, but he has a sweet, kindly nature. He's gentle. And he's smart, a problem solver and a wise money manager. These qualities are important. All of them. Important to me.

Andrew went back to school some years ago and finished. That's important, too. While in school, he developed a love of literature, mostly the British novel. I suppose one day he'll read some American stuff, but I don't really care. I think he likes British literature because it appeals to his temperament. And he likes how smart the people were--characters and authors.

I am proud of my fourth child. He's a good dad and a good husband and other good things. Like a good athlete, although he can't prove it right now. His foot, you know. But he played many sports and did them well. I remember. I know he does, too. And I will always see him running down the street in Boise, reaching the finish line ahead of his dad those many years ago. I love that boy.