My Tatem Can't Be 14

So, Tatem Emmanuel had the worst entry into this world of all the Thompsons. He was stuck. Entirely stuck, triple cone-headed, and I didn't even care after taking one glimpse of that flat-jawed, already chunky-cheeked sweet face. Mini dimples catering the corners of his mouths were the first feature I noticed and the one secret wish I had.

The Tate.

He was, by far, the fastest growing Thompson of all. Weighing in at a hefty 20.5 pounds at just under 12 weeks, his obesity fooled strangers into thinking he was a good nine or ten months old and surely had full control of his head. He even ended up in an exersaucer at the church nursery, at 12 weeks. Weeks, people, weeks. I'll never forget seeing him sunken into that upright contraption, chin resting on his neck fat, as though he had the hand-eye coordination to reach for those toys.

He was fat. Chunky chunks everywhere, wrists overflowing onto his hands, feet that had such a fat pad on top that he couldn't squeeze into shoes of any sort until he was nearly three. My determined mom would send sandals; the velcro would run out before reaching over the squishy fat pad. Socks with grips, our solution.

Cute fat thing.

You know, we caught glimpses of his strong-willed I-know-what-I-want self even when he was itsy-bitsy. The little guy would wiggle himself out of being wrapped tight, fling blankets off in the night, had himself dressed fully by age two, and potty-training? Not even. He did it himself. Youngest to try. Youngest to conquer. That little barely two year old was a force to be reckoned with, and his way was almost always as hilarious as it was insistent.

Fourteen is sneaking up on me big time. Just two years ago he was twelve and managed to get himself on a basketball team for three months before we found out (don't ask). Just last year he managed to add pole vaulting to seventh grade track after getting cut from the team . . . without the school owning a pole . . . without practicing until the first meet . . . without pole vaulting having an actual space on the school track event list . . . until Tatem.

Sly social persistent thing.

At eleven, he caused my favorite teacher note, so far. This one was how he left a table of kids in middle school who were making fun of another, and he actually sat with the kid his friends were bothering. That teacher said he knew Tate would go far in life. I think so, too.

There is something about being a mom and having to learn that the years shorten, and the kids grow, and there's no stopping it. This one, this Tatem, I can't imagine his energy and spunk and coming and going not being a regular part of our lives, ever.  I like him - a lot. He is straight up a gift, you know the kind. He's the child that you want perfect parents with one perfect child to get, so they can see that what works for one doesn't work for another and that the first perfectly behaved one isn't, in fact, a reflection of their perfect parenting. We call that Tate. He has made us wonder if we'll make it through; he has made us depend on God to do a lot of refining and asking and begging and thanking and rejoicing.

His name is too fitting - someone knew we'd need a constant reminder attached to the many times his name would stretch our lungs, Tatem Emmanuel. God is with us. So with us.

I couldn't love him more. I just wish he'd stop going nonstop. Then I could actually see him for more than an hour on his actual birthday! #EyeRollSTAYhomeChildhome #YouAreMineSocialOneMINE

Pursing Mommaville,
Emily