Just the Bad Parts, Please

George is the "Spotlighted Student of the Week" at school. He filled out his poster, took his favorite book in, has gathered his most prized possessions.

Today, Chris and I were responsible for writing a letter about him that would be read by his teacher. Because I'm a rebel, however, I requested to read it myself. And instead of a letter, I took bits and pieces from the "George Anderson" chapter of my book.

But although I trimmed the original 20 pages down to 3, I didn't cut quite enough for George's taste.

"I don't want anything lovey-dovey," he demanded. "Nothing about how cute I am or how soft my cheeks are or how much you love me. None of that."

"Well, George," I pressed, "what exactly am I supposed to include?"

"Just the bad parts," he replied. "The parts about burping and getting into trouble."

"It's going to sound like we don't even like you."

"I'm okay with that."

So, the following excerpt is what I read to the class this morning.

I did choose to omit the part about his early admission to reform school.

Some things his classmates will just have to find out for themselves.

George Anderson

“The Baby”

05/22/2002

You can learn many things from children.  How much patience you have, for instance.    ~ Franklin P. Jones

            George Anderson Willis was born into our lives on May 22, 2002. He was welcomed home with excitement by big brothers, Sam and Gus and by his adoring sister, Mary Claire.

            The baby of the family, George’s status was confirmed from the beginning. We all doted on him, cooed at him, catered to him. His baby book was thinner than the others, not by choice but by necessity.

George learned things differently in our home. At age three, when our other kids were cutting their teeth on Barney and Sesame Street, he was watching Lord of the Rings.  By five, he was a Guitar Hero aficionado and could rock out to Led Zeppelin and Guns ‘N Roses with the best of them.

We call him the “Rain Man” of Legos. He can build anything with precision, symmetry, and speed. He has a freakish ability to construct complex creations far beyond his years. He’ll open a new Lego set, spread out the instructions, color code his Lego piles, and get lost in another world for the next couple of hours—or minutes—depending on the resultant product. He’s meticulous to a fault, unable to think about anything else until his latest masterpiece is finished. There are Lego displays all over his room. He becomes infuriated when I move them to dust his shelves, occasionally breaking off a piece that I can’t put back. He’ll sigh with the ennui of an old man as he instructs me how to rebuild what I broke.

Whenever something breaks in our home—whether it’s a TV, an Xbox, or a large appliance—George can’t wait to take it apart piece by piece to determine what went wrong. He’ll cut and scrape his fingers and pull sharp metal pieces apart until his hands are raw and bleeding, but he’s not satisfied until he figures out how every single piece works.

He’s the loudest of the Willis’s—perhaps not by choice, but by necessity. Demanding to be heard, he makes noise endlessly. He sings to himself, talks to himself, whistles incessantly, hums and chatters to fill in any noise voids. When he wants to be heard, he yells. There is no “inside voice” for George. He has just one setting. And it’s stuck on “loud.”

He’s ferociously committed to his best friend, Ethan (Stacy’s youngest), whom he’s “known all my life except for three days because he wasn’t born until three days after me.” He and Ethan have plans to move to Africa and raise monkeys. Stacy and I have been granted visiting privileges, but only on the next hill over.

George’s imagination is boundless, but I often question his work ethic. Much like Sam, he prefers to have things handed to him, to only tackle those things that he’s already good at. He’s got an entrepreneurial spirit, though. Two of his ideas? Lickable meat wallpaper and a body zipper for easy surgical access.

As the final addition to the Willis Tribe, George Anderson is precocious, funny, introspective, smart as a whip, aware of the world around him like none of my other kids, can guilt us into almost anything, is a tad bit spoiled, unrestricted, energetic. And loud. Did I mention loud? Because his volume level could break the sound barrier—and my nerves. He’s always in trouble because he’s always the one we hear above the rest. As smart as he is, you’d think he’d figure this out.

            By the time I hustle him into his bed at night, I’m usually ready to turn off his lights and shut his door for a long, long time. Inevitably, he’s already fought with his siblings, argued a request to pick up his toys, tortured the dogs, ridden his bike without his helmet even though he knows it’s strictly forbidden, presented me with a school paper that says, “I don’t think George is working to his potential,” burped at the dinner table, refused to eat his green beans, used all the hot water in the shower, trashed the basement, and talked back to me.

            But when he smiles at me, he’s always forgiven.