The Chosen One turns five today, so I'm on a plane back to the States to attend his party. For the record I haven't complained about it one bit. I mean, it would have been a lot easier had the party come to me, but whatever. If my son wants his Daddy to fly for nine hours on his birthday than so be it. God. Kids today. At any rate, here's a post from over three years ago that features The Chosen One prominently. It's all true. So put a slicker on and get some Kleenex and read the thing.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It wasn't. It just wasn't. We missed toddler sing. The Chosen One and I. We were there. For just seconds. But we missed it. Forceful will. That's what it was. The forceful will of a 20-month old. So we missed it.

The rain, the rain, the rain. Pouring. Wind-swept rain. Drenching Rain. Raining rain. It fell hard. It fell hard on us. The rain.

I had it all planned. All planned. We'd work out the excess energy and rough house a bit beforehand. Roughhouse a bit. Work it out. He'd then be ready for some sitting and some singing. We'd sing like angels we would. Beautiful angels. Angels without wings but with angelic voices. Singing. I don't want wings. No wings. That would be weird.

To drive or walk or stroll? To drive or walk or stroll? That was the question. That is the type of question I ask myself all the time. Drive or walk or stroll? That is the central question of my life. Every day. Asking it. Drive? Walk? Stroll?

Which ever it be it would be in the rain. The rain. The rain fell. The rain fell hard. The hard rain fell. Fell the rain hard. Rain hard fell the. Rain. Rain. Baby the rain must fall. Did Fall. Is Falling. Rain. Rain. Go away. Go away hard. Please.

A drive. Then a walk. Quickly. The Chosen One kept pulling his hood off. I kept pulling it back on. Pulling off. Pulling on. Walking. Stopping. Pulling off. Walking. Stopping. Pulling on. Walking. Stopping. Sirens. Listen to them. Sirens. Oh, how we love sirens.

We made it. We were there. Up the stairs. Holding him. Feeling the wiggle of his legs. Sensing the coming of a whine. But we were there. In the library. The dry quiet library. We made it. Other kids and parents and nannies entered. All so placid. So happy. So angelic. I hated them all.

Yesterday The Chosen One fell. Scraped his upper lip. The mark joined the others. The other marks on his face. One just below his nose. Another on his nose. Marks. Red marks. Red marks and a nose that needed to be wiped. Red marks and a nose that needed to be wiped on a face that cried. In the library. Red marks, a nose in need of wiping, a crying face. In the library. In the library where the librarians stare hard. Glare hard. Punch the due dates hard. Red marks.

Point. That way. Point. Out. The Chosen One pointed that way to go out. Now. Hurry. I'm dying here. Point. Roar. Cry. Now. We were in the library. The Chosen One wanted out of the library. But we were going to be angels. Point. Beautiful angels singing. Point. Without wings. Point. That would be weird. Point. Out. Roar. Point. Now. Cry. Point. Ok. All right.

So back out in the rain. The rain. Oh the rain. Down the steps. Oh how we love steps. Slick steps. Wet steps. The Chosen One stepped down the steps. Into a puddle. Oh how we love puddles. Jump-jump. They were all singing by then. Splash-splash. Singing in the dry library.

The Chosen One smiling. The Chosen One smiling in the dirty puddle. It's the important thing, I know. The Chosen One smiling. I know that's how I should feel. I know. My son is smiling. Be happy. I know. Red marks. Messy nose. Smiling face. I'd lost. He'd won. That's all I could feel. And wet. Terribly wet.

A monster. Have I created a monster? A roaring, crying, pointing monster. A monster with force. Like the rain. A monster with the forceful will of the rain. How did this happen? Halftime. When was halftime? A time-out. I needed a T.O., baby. Where were the commercial breaks? I never had time to regroup. A T.O., baby. He won. He'll want to win again. He'll always want to win. He won't budge until he tastes victory. The sweet salty taste of victory. Winner. Him. Loser. Me. Wet us.

Walking in the rain. Not singing in the library. Not walking in the library. Not singing in the rain. Walking in the rain. Walking. Stopping. Pulling off hood. Walking. Stopping. Pulling on hood. Walking. Another puddle. Jump-jump. I wanted to be an angel. Splash-splash. I wanted to sing like an angel. Walking. Stopping. More sirens. And this time I wanted wings. Sirens screaming. Walking. Oh to fly away. To fly, fly away. To fly. To float. Up.

This post is dedicated to all the girl silk-weavers of Nyongbyon in da house.