Introducing Sam

Sam is crazy. He is running around this small apartment touching everything with his baby hands. We cut his hair about a month ago and his head and face now look like a big guy's. That's what we call him too, "Big Guy."

He's been up and down the stairs about forty times and he's off again with Camille's lunch box. He's quiet upstairs which means that he's getting into something. All of us in this family know what lack of noise from a toddler means. Actually, it never changes. Whether it's the seven, ten, or sixteen year-old, I know if they're silent, they're up to something. The only door Sam can open upstairs leads to his bedroom. The rest have those huge white balls on the knobs.

He's back again. He is smiling at me, his fingers busy, his eyebrows twitching. He pulls a place mat from under our mail basket and everything flies from the small sorting table.

"Sam!" I don't mean to yell. I know it'll eventually land him in therapy where he can commiserate with his other siblings. But, I'm tired, cranky, verging on killer PMS while I wait for my first period to return since his brother's birth. I usually get them back anywhere from 4-10 months postpartum and the word I'm looking for to describe my mood prior to the first one is unprintable.

"Oh Oh"

"Yes, oh oh is right. Pick it up." I look down at Theo, Sam's five month old brother. He has managed to turn his body in a full circle and appears to be staring at the ceiling. I lean closer, he's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Sam begins sorting through the mail. I'm watching the computer screen as the new machine chokes on uploading Office Mac, a program I desparately need to keep up with school work. In fact, I have one week left of my semester and if I don't get this program running, I won't be able to read my grading book and turn in my students' final grades.

Theo rolls onto his belly and is crying. Part of me wants to flip him back over but I'm conflicted because I'm curious to see if he can do it himself again. He has before, but he yells a lot before he does so. My mother always insists I hold my babies too much. She says it's normal for them to cry. I know that deep down inside and I'm sure there's a therapist out there who will blame my mother for why I have to cradle an infant as soon as he cries.

Sam has gone out back and returns with one sneaker.

"Thank you." He hands it to me and runs off.

"You're welcome," I murmur. I hear clashing and scoop up Theo.

In the kitchen, I find Sam sitting int he midst of all our Rubbermaid containers. The cupboard is open and he appears to be sorting in the way that most two year-olds do. He's throwing lids and bottoms out of his reach, stretching for them, and then screaming in frustration.

I open the dryer door and lean in to check the clothing. There is something wrong with our dryer, but I'm not sure what. It doesn't stop drying. My mother had suggested we have too much stuff piled on top. She hinted by leaving a magazine open to an article on the topic the last time she babysat, when Drew was scheduled to have a vasectomy. Four daughters between us wasn't enough. We wanted a child together, so we had Sam.

When I met Drew, I told him I had a vision that we'd have a boy together. And I did. I did have a vision.