Worship

My son, who is 5, FIVE, cinco, not 4, and “not a baby, Mommy!” just found out that my half-brother, who is 17, SEVENTEEN, definitely not sweet 16, and “almost in college, Mom!” is coming to visit this week.

Let the worship begin!

In my son’s eyes, my younger brother is a walking god. A mystical man whose feet barely touch the floor. Who’s much cooler than Dora’s cousin Diego and even Barry Bonds (whose alleged transgressions we haven’t broken to him yet.) And, of course, he’s much, much better at everything than anyone else (except maybe Daddy, but we can’t really go there).

“Let’s call JJ!!!” my son explodes after breakfast this morning, knowing that my brother should be arriving with my folks late this afternoon.

“Please, Mommy! Please! Please! Please! Please! Please! Can’t we just call him, Mommy??? Please!”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!” Clearly there’s a 38-pound mosquito in the room I can’t get rid of.

So we call my brother who is down in Menlo getting ready to take a tour of Stanford. This is the conversation that I hear from my end:

“Hello! Hello! Hello! Heeeeello!!! Who’s there? Who is this? Hello! JJ. I want JJ. Hello!”

Silence.

“Hi JJ. So whaddarya doin’?”

Silence. Smile.

“Ok…Good…Golf, tennis, my rockets. Are you going to sleep on the top bunk?”

Smile. Smile.

“Yup. See ya!” (Yes, at age 5 my son can already speak Man-Tongue. One word sentences. Grunts. Yups.)

He hangs up and his face is as excited as my husband’s with a Yankees-Red Sox lead in the bottom of the 9th. Rejoice!

So JJ finally shows up. And I send him off to pick-up my son at Pre-K, just a few blocks away, to surprise him for 3 o’clock pick-up.

Heart attack, apparently. My son flipped out and tore through Pre-K, lunch room, tiny tables, backyard, tomato seedlings, nursery, Susie’s cubby, and directly into my brother’s arms.

“I love you,” he declared.

And every heart within a three-mile radius melted.

Worship.

By Annie B. Yearout