Corey

         Corey is six years old. He is wild and unpredictable. He is sensitive, yet bold. He is intelligent, and wise beyond his years. He is, above all, mine.

         On the day he was born, they took him from me. There was a problem. There has always been a problem. He overcame it, like he overcomes everything. He follows me, reminds me of my dreams, and when my natural tendency to procrastinate gets the better of me, he tells me to get back to work.

         I discovered that Corey was coming sometime in November, 2002. I was scared. I didn’t know the first thing about babies. My mom told me it would come to me. I didn’t know at the time that he would be my only one, for a number of reasons. He didn’t come on his own; they had to go in and get him.

         Corey is six years old. Corey loves school. He has a crew of close friends in his first grade class. They adore him. His teacher adores him. The principal, the nurse, the secretary, and the lunch ladies all adore him. I adore him. He is, above all, mine.

         He is funny without meaning to be, and when he means to be funny, just comes off as silly. If he doesn’t grow up to be an entertainer, it will be a shame for the world. His soft brown eyes twinkle when he knows you understand him. His smile, crooked with partly grown in teeth, some missing, delights passers by. He is amazing. He is what I always dreamed of, even though I never knew it.

         When it is warm outside, that’s where he would like to be. A playground is like a beacon, calling straight to his little legs, to carry him forth to the slide and the swings. He cannot help himself. After school in the Spring and Fall, we stay and play a little bit. In the Summer, we go to the playground across from the post office. Corey loves the playground.

         Corey is six years old. On the weekends, and on extended holiday breaks, he goes to his daddy’s house. I miss him when he’s gone. He calls me and tells me all that he’s doing. Sometimes he’ll get on the computer and email me. He misses me, too.

         We go to see movies together. He is an avid Chipmunks fan, and so we were the first in line to see The Squeakquel on the day it came out. Life-size Chipmunks in the lobby were too much for him, and begged a photo op.

         He would rather have McDonald’s chicken nuggets and French fries than any other meal in the world. Sometimes, he’ll eat pizza, plain cheese. If there’s no pizza, he’ll settle for angel hair pasta, tossed in butter and parmesan cheese. He calls it Angel Noodles.

         Corey is six years old. Corey has Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and a crappy immune system. His hands don’t hold things the way they should. His arms don’t throw things as well as they should. His legs don’t kick things as far as they should. He is the most wonderful mess I have ever known.

         We visit the hospital at least once a week for therapy. Some weeks we are there two or three times for appointments. On occasion, we are there for several days in a row because the latest virus has discovered his crappy immune system. He always overcomes it, like he overcomes everything.

         Most of the time, Corey won’t come on his own; I have to go in and get him. His imagination is limitless, so every dancing character on the television screen is instantly his friend. He has a hard time leaving his friends behind when it is time to go to school, or to an appointment, or anywhere, except outside.

         Corey is six years old. He is wild. He is sweet. He is wonderful. He is wise. He is precious. He is a reminder that I was meant to give him life. I was meant to care for him. I was meant to raise him. I was called upon to be his mother, and I hope I have risen to the challenge. A challenge, it is. He will overcome it, of course, like he overcomes everything. I only hope I can be so good. Still, I would not have it any other way. He is, above all, mine.



WC:739