Alex’s teacher this year is Mrs. Cook, only I should probably confess right now that Mrs. Cook is not her real name. And of course this is where the relational side of me wants to say, “Hey, y’all. Her name is actually Mrs. So-And-So. She teaches at Such-And-Such School - do you know her?”

But I realize that might be a bit foolish and somewhat counterproductive in terms of protecting the boy’s privacy. Plus, the whole creating-an-alias-for-the-teacher thing is kind of fun. In fact, it makes me feel a little bit like Sidney Bristow. Except without the hot pink wig and the killer kah-rah-tay kicks.

And, you know, the rock-solid abs.

Mrs. Cook is an absolutely wonderful teacher, so much so that other parents whose children have been in her class get TEARS IN THEIR EYES when they talk about her. Even more remarkable is what someone told me the other day: Mrs. Cook has been teaching for over twenty-five years and has never raised her voice in the classroom.

We should probably pause at this juncture to give the Lord a holy handclap of praise for His goodness in providing an authority figure who just might have a calming influence on our child. Because, quite frankly, his daddy and I have proven to be of no use at all when it comes to convincing Alex to dial down his level of enthusiasm over, say, NOODLES.

Anyway.

Last night Alex and I were saying prayers before his bedtime, and all of the sudden he sat straight up and said, “Mama! Oh, Mama! I have a GOOD WORD for us, Mama!”

Thinking that he’d learned a new word at school, I patted his leg and said, “Okay, baby - and I want you to tell me ALL about it just as soon as we finish praying.”

I started to pray again, and after about five seconds the little man piped up again, only louder: “BUT MAMA! I HAVE A GOOD WORD TO SHARE!”

Something about the way he said it let me know that he wasn’t talking about vocabulary words, so I said, “All right, then - tell me your good word.”

And he bowed his head again, clasped his little hands together, and in the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard, he said, “Do not be afraid, for I am with you.”

Oh, internets.

My heart, it was full.

And I could pretend like I didn’t cry but that would be a lie.

After we finished with prayers and goodnight kisses, I walked to the den to let D know that Alex wanted to tell him goodnight, too. As D started down the hall, I choked back the sobs and said, “Be sure to ask him about his good word.”

A few minutes later D came out of Alex’s room, and as I continued to wipe the tears from my eyes I said, “So - did he tell you his good word?”

“He did,” D answered. “And I think I have a little perspective to add to that.”

“What is it?” I asked, thinking that our sweet boy had probably recited even more of that particular verse for his daddy.

D said, “Well, he said the verse, and I told him how proud I was, and then I asked him WHO is with him.”

“Uh-huh. What did he say?”

“He said, ‘MRS. COOK is with me, Daddy!’”

So.

Alex may still be just a smidge foggy in terms of his theology.

We’ll try to work on that.

But in the meantime, y’all can be encouraged to know that you don’t have to be afraid because Mrs. Cook is with you always.

And she’ll stay calm regardless.

And she’ll teach you stuff, too.

An incomplete list of objects that were nearly destroyed by the four year-old yesterday:

- a window pane in the dining room
- the glass top of the living room coffee table
- a leg on the breakfast room table
- two remote controls
- the big toe on his left foot
- an arm of one of the living room chairs
- his bed frame
- a glass storm door
- a plastic pirate ship
- several wooden closet doors
- Superman’s cape

And then, at Office Max:

- a display of copier paper
- a faucet in the restroom
- a rack of computer games
- a metal shelving unit
- an upholstered desk chair

Last night on the phone I told Mama that I really don’t think it’ll be any time at all before he starts putting holes in the floors.

Using only the force of his ever-stomping feet.

Last week Alex started swimming lessons.

I know. It’s a little late in the summer. I have no excuse. I hang my head in shame.

The first day of lessons passed without incident. Alex seemed to love his teacher right away - she was oh-so-sweet, and the little man couldn’t wait to go back the next day.

On the second day of lessons, D. wanted to take the boy to the pool so he could check out A.’s mad swimming skillz, and aside from A. having a bit of resistance to a move they call “the spider,” everything went well.

We were understandably pleased.

On Wednesday I was delighted to take Alex to his lesson since, as we all know, I can’t get enough of SITTING OUTSIDE IN THE STIFLING HEAT. But when we got to the pool, the sweet teacher from the previous two days was nowhere to be found. Another teacher, Miss Emily, was there instead, and Alex, in his typically shy fashion, walked up to her and said, “Hey. My name is Alex.” After a few pleasantries, they hopped in the pool and got started with some kicking.

I was only halfway paying attention to what they were doing because I was making a to-do list in an effort to distract myself from the realization that THE HEAT, IT JUST MIGHT KILL ME, but you can imagine my surprise when, a few minutes later, I distinctly heard Miss Emily say, “Okay, Howard. Let’s work with the kickboard.”

Howard??

I sort of shrugged internally and decided that it had to be a one-time slip-up - after all, there’s no telling how many kids cross her path in a day. Plus, she had such a huge smile on her face that it was hard to fault her.

But then:

“Great job with the kickboard, Howard!”

Which led me to an all-but-certain conclusion:

My child’s swimming instructor believed that his name was Howard.

I mean, it’s a perfectly lovely name, but, you know, NOT HIS.

Being the good Southern girl that I am, I offered correction via the semi-passive-aggressive route: by offering a little parental encouragement from my lounge chair. I said, “Way to go, ALEX” as loud as I dared, but I didn’t want to go overboard, lest the other mamas get the impression that I am a woman who attends her child’s Mother’s Day Out programs and mouths the words to the Thanksgiving songs while simultaneously offering cues for the next round of hand motions. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.

And since the next few laps were uneventful, I thought maybe the issue had resolved itself.

Until Miss Emily asked Howard if he wanted to swim to the deep end of the pool.

Clearly we had a misunderstanding.

At the end of the lesson, I really wanted to set the record straight. The only problem is that as a result of All The Southernness I have a very difficult time being assertive, because what if it makes the other person uncomfortable? What if the other person thinks I’m rude?

I know, internets. I KNOW.

So I walked up to the little man and his teacher and said, “ALEX, have you thanked Miss Emily for the lesson?”

“Oh yes ma’am, Mama,” he replied.

“Well, ALEX - let’s tell Miss Emily good-bye!”

The very picture of Southern parental subtlety, I was.

The next day D. took swimming lesson duty again so that I could take care of some bloggy business, and when he came home he gave me a re-cap of the lesson over lunch. He was almost finished with his chicken tenders dinner (oh, we eat fancy around here. REAL fancy.) when he said, “Hey - here’s something sort of strange. Do you know what I think I heard Alex’s swim teacher call him during his lesson?”

“Oh, no. HOWARD?”

“Yes!” he answered. “Where in the world did ‘Howard’ come from?”

At that point I told him the whole story with which I have already bored you.

Alex didn’t have a lesson on Friday, but several times over the weekend D. and I told him that if his teacher calls him ‘Howard’ when they’re in the pool and we’re not nearby to correct her, it is perfectly fine for him to say, “My name is not Howard. My name is Alex.”

When I gave Alex these instructions for the forty seventh time, he looked at me and said, “But Mama! My teacher calls me Howard ALL DAY LONG!”

So yesterday morning, D. took Alex to swimming so that I could try to get some writing done. When they got to the pool, the little man marched right up to his teacher and said, “My name is NOT HOWARD. My name is ALEX.”

Only he said it to the first teacher. The oh-so-sweet one. The one who has never had a second’s trouble remembering his name.

And praise the Lord, she was back at the pool today.

But tomorrow? If Miss Emily is his teacher again? I’m going to make Alex a big ole “NOT HOWARD” sign. Or maybe I’ll just draw a name tag on his chest with a Sharpie:

“HELLO, MY NAME IS NOT HOWARD.”

And in little tiny letters underneath:

“My mama is sitting over there in a lounge chair. And she’s hot. So I bet she’d really appreciate it if you called me ‘Alex.’ Because IT’S MY NAME.”

And then:

“Thanks a whole bunch, sweet thing. You have a super great day.”

- “Mama? I want a SUPER BIG HUG!”

- “Mama, I love you all much.”

- “I DID IT! Because I CAN DO! ALL THINGS! THROUGH CHRIST! WHO STRENGTHUMS ME!”

- “Oh, I MISSED YOU when you went to the store and before you came back and I’m SO glad you’re home.”

- “Let’s dance.”

- “I love movies, Mama. They’re my favorite.”

- “I love bananas, Mama. They’re my favorite.”

- “I love quesadillas, Mama. They’re my favorite.”

- “I love milk, Mama. It’s my favorite.”

- “YES MA’AM, Your Highness!” (I promise I didn’t teach him the “your highness” thing. Promise.)

- “Well, we certainly CAN have a snack when we get home. That will be fun!”

- “Dear God. Thank you for Boo and BooAlex and Alex. Thank you for Mama and BooMama and S. Thank you for Daddy and BooDaddy and D.”

- “Mama? You’re my favorite girl in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD.”

And you know what? He’s my favorite boy.

Feel free to share your favorite young’un one-liners in the comments.

And then go give said young’un lots of sweet sugar. And a SUPER BIG HUG.

Every Tuesday night one of my best friends and I meet for supper - with kids in tow. It’s a great chance for us to catch up over chips and salsa while the children work diligently to see who can spill the most queso dip all over the table.

It’s fun. You should join us.

Last week my friend NK’s younger child needed a nap more than she needed to eat out, so they had to cancel. I decided that it would be fun for Alex and me to still go to dinner together, so we headed to a neighborhood deli for a little mama / son date night. The atmosphere might not be so great, but I knew the company would more than make up for it.

Once Alex had his cheese pizza and I had my salad, we started covering some of his favorite conversational topics: friends, Mickey Mouse, monsters, VERY VERY BIG MONSTERS, and SCARY! GIANT! MONSTERS! THAT GO! RARRRRRRRRR!

Eventually Alex decided that he was more interested in eating than talking, and I found myself staring at the little man as he devoured his pizza, wondering what he will look like when he’s older. And it occurred to me, as I watched him, that he’s going to grow up, and I cannot stop the process.

Before I knew what hit me, my eyes filled with tears. All I could think about was how the little man’s cheeks are thinner by the day, how his ankles are now slim and defined, how his calves have muscles instead of squishy rolls of baby softness. And with everything in me, I wanted to stand up in my chair and say: PEOPLE, WHAT IS UP WITH NOT BEING ABLE TO STOP THE CHILDREN FROM GROWING UP? IT MAKES ME VERY SAD.

You should probably keep in mind that I’m the same person who cried when I filled out a form for Alex’s Mother’s Day Out last week, because it’s the last form I’ll ever fill out for MDO since he starts preschool at a different place this fall, and clearly I am far too emotional and unstable to be a voice of reason in terms of this whole children-growing-up thing, and perhaps I should look into a prescription for a light nerve pill of some sort.

Anyway.

When I finally composed myself at the dinner table, I decided, right there on the spot, that since I don’t have the superhuman power of stopping time (sadly, I can only melt steel with my eyes and create wind where there once was none), I might as well embrace the fact that Alex can’t stay four forever. So I turned to him, determined to look his future square in the eye, and said, “Alex? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Oh. A fireman.”

We talked about firemen for a couple of minutes, and then Alex grabbed my hand mid-sentence, looked straight in my eyes, and said, “Hold on, Mama. Just a minute, Mama. Hold on.”

“What is it?” I replied.

“Mama? Well, Mama? I just want to be Alex when I grow up. I just want to be Alex, Mama.”

And the tears, they started again.

I have no idea what Alex will look like when he’s older. I don’t know what he’ll do for a living, who he’ll marry, or where he’ll live.

But I do know one thing.

If, above all, he can “just be Alex” as he makes his way through different ages and stages?

Well, I think that’s the very best plan for the future that I’ve ever heard.