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Sorrey is the sweetest word.

I have often joked that Will could spell the word “shenanigans” since his fourth birthday. This, because of all the apology notes he has written in his young life. Since the time his pudgy fist could hold a pencil, to today, the effort has grown into a natural extension of his misbehavior, so automatic that it’s no longer a consequence wielded from on high. There are many times, I have come to realize, that I don’t know about, where Will the offender has moved into apology mode and taken care if it. Note written, sealed and delivered. But indulge me for a moment in this catalog of the ones I do know about. It’s been a long road, folks. (If you could, please save your “Why???” till the end.)

At age three: Poking large holes in our sofa cushions with an oversized porcupine quill. Our living room sofa! Doesn’t everyone have an oversized porcupine quill on hand? (See reference to “Burk Emporium” in previous blog). At age four: Cutting his bed sheets with the practiced skill of a surgeon so that he extracted only the cement mixers from the repeating construction truck-themed sheets. He didn’t like them. At five and six: Rough housing so badly with the “puppy” twice his size and weight that his clothes were constantly torn, shredded, and so full of holes that we deemed it “dog wear” and kept it in his bottom drawer to change into after school. And Bill so frustrated by the unstoppable tussle that one cold day he put William outside and let the dog stay in. Rough housing so badly with our cat that he squeezed the poop out of him. Sorry, cat. Then the years of “take-aparts.” We are easing out of that phase, though the items dismantled to their atomic components have become more expensive: ipods, cell phones, digital cameras. There is not a mechanical, electronic or digital device that has not had its once-working innards exposed by boy. He has always wondered how it is made. Unfortunately, his “wondering” usually employs a screw driver, a hammer and on occasion, open flame (see below).

Some of this “boyhood” we take in stride: we did replace the shed window shot up with BB-sized holes but there appear to be a couple in the sunroom window of our HOUSE. The blackened crater in his bedroom carpet where a reptile warming lamp set there tried its durdest to burn down the house–what to do about that? Nothing, NOTHING that enters this world of boy leaves it intact. The dings, dents, scratches on every piece of furniture in his room, the hand marks that start on the white hall walls at the base of our stairs and make their sure way to room of boy so I can–what?–find him in a dessert sandstorm? You know that little piece of ceiling over top of a stairwell? Shoe prints there. This trivial embellishment to our home pales in comparison with other “imprints,” such as the night years ago we hastily left Ellie’s guitar lesson with acting-up boy, who made the singularly bad call to take a swat at his sister with a little red knitted cap, the tip of which contained a single driveway pebble. And when that hat made contact with the 15-foot plate glass window to the music store towering behind her, we heard the telltale spider crack of glass spreading just like in the cartoons. It did not fall out on the pavement. My heart and stomach did. I know he was under six at the time because the lawyer we consulted said that six was the cut-off age to take a minor to court. Perfect.

Ohhhh, have there been pranks and exploits and accidents and–well, shenanigans. Today’s popular parenting culture calls these “poor choices.” That would imply that rational thought is, or could have been, applied to the situation. With some of the scenarios we have found ourselves involved in, though, I gotta wonder. It’s much more like puppet boy of boundless imagination and almost no impulse control in the grip of pure evil deviates from grid of sane normalcy. More like that. Poor choices my patootie.

For all of these Will has first unhappily and then willingly penned his apology. The ones he initiated, many of which don’t come back to me, are the most sincere and humbling. There are notes, folded and again, folded as small as possible to try and expunge their necessity to daddy and to mom, about all the breakage, damage and destruction that has gone on around here. “Dear Dad….I’m sorry I broke/ lost/ hit/ smashed/ burned/ran over your (insert item of ranging value here).” “Dear Mom….by mistake I accidentally … (insert verbs which really don’t belong to normal, daily life here.)” Letters written from down the hall and a planet away of regret, remorse, hindsight. Boy has PERFECT vision, looking back. There are notes to teachers, notes to friends, notes to anyone Will  has offended and now, tonight, there is a note on my kitchen counter. Behold! Wait! What’s this? The spill of an emptied backpack: busted pencils, marker lids, shavings, crumbs, wrappers, basically trash (yes, on the counter) and this: a hastily folded note. All the signs are there that I should unfold it and know its contents so as to deduce what went on today. You think teenagers don’t tell you anything? Try guilty teenagers with a serious sitch on their hands. Stewing like a crock-pot on looooow. That’s been my boy more days than he cares to count. Mum like his mouth got glued shut.

But there it is, little lined wad of paper, greasy folds and a few smudge marks that make me know it’s not homework. Okay fine. I unfold it. The spelling is more atrocious than I recall. “I am sorrey for my behavor. It won’t happen again.”  Hmmmm. I study this rather brief trip into the land of regret and think, this is not like Will. This does not look like his handwriting. And of all the things he can’t spell, “sorry” is not one of them. I’ve heard the boy stand clear-eyed before an adult and take full responsibility, followed by an apology that makes you weak at the knees. In this regard, I have heard him out-human many the adults in his life, and I’m one of them. The sudden dawning that this is a note written to my son and not by him, that some other young upstart at a boy scout meeting gave Will a bit of trouble when he should have been listening to William expound on knots. Can this be possible?  That my son stood up to present various knot-tying procedures, a presentation he had gotten up at 6:15 am to research online and draw into a notebook, and then practice over and over with a hank of rope. And here he goes to teach a little class of peers and they–goof off? Don’t listen??? Talk among themselves and banter about dumb, irrelevant silliness to derail the class?  The irony is too much. When life comes back around to the hard places you’ve been with its face washed and clean clothes on and suddenly what was barely manageable becomes a matter of pride… Well then. Worth being there for that.

I am warmed to know the boy has been served up a big ol’ spoonful of his own stuff, and so tickled to see some other boy’s meager attempt at amends. Never mind the knots, kid. Pay attention, my boy here can teach you a thing or two about the art of apology. I am relieved, so relieved, and grateful. Some of the immaturity, it appears, was sheared off with his hair last month or destroyed in the crucible that is boy to man. The fire metaphor is fitting here, I’ve used it before. That’s because several seasons ago Bill and Will built the lab of all idiocy: a little brick firepit in our back woods. I probably only know about half the items consumed in the inferno: whole bags of marshmallows, bug spray cannister (of course aerosol), sneakers, broken lawn furniture, school notebooks and binders (an annual celebration here on the hottest day of June) and a plasma TV. Boy, were them some flames. Whole new meaning to the term “technicolor.”

And as colorful as life has been with this boy of ours, I am so grateful the explosives are giving way to a more enduring glow. I can see the teacher in him. I can see the leader. I can see the man. Don’t get me wrong. I know we have some years still. I am not that naïve. I still hide the lithium batteries. And the idea that we could soon put a set of wheels under this whole enterprise is terrifying. But I’m hopeful. And I am glad for life to mirror his inanity right back at him, I am glad for life to come round. Son of mine; note-writing, life-loving son of mine…after I pray for your safety, and after I pray for your humanity and your kindness and your faith and industry and your well-being, do you know what I pray for–for you?

A son.