More Babies

At the end of June, I wrote about Earl's niece having an adorable daughter. Little Regan is still a sleepy, floppy newborn which is good since her mother is recovering slowly from her C-section and taking care of her two-year-old Caroline. We've gotten to see baby Regan a few times, and now they've asked my husband Earl to be the godfather. He, of course, insists on calling her Ray gun.

Now my side of the family has decided to get into the baby business. My nephew Kyle, 24, became a dad last week when Oliver was born.

He was big, 8 pounds, 13 ounces.

My mom and dad traveled from Florida to Texas this weekend to see the baby, their first great grandchild. 

Here's a picture that my mom took on her phone, so it's a little blurry, but this is my Dad holding Oliver, while my niece Abby, 18, looks on. Abby, by the way, is not the mom, but the aunt of Oliver. Abby heads off to college at the end of August.

I love how alert Oliver looks, as if he understands whatever secrets my dad is telling him.

And here's the new dad, Kyle, next to his sister. Kyle's life has been pretty much go-with-the-flow so far. He plays the guitar in a punk band and has delivered pizzas on his bicycle. All of that should be changing now as he takes on the mantle of dad.

I haven't met Kyle's girlfriend, the mother of Oliver, and I don't see myself getting to Texas any time soon, so I don't know when I'll get to see Oliver either. Maybe they'll bring Oliver up north when he gets a little older so he can meet his great, great grandmother, my Nana, who lives in Kentucky -- 5 generations of Kincers.

Awkward Conversations

Talking to a grown up nephew is, well, awkward.
I see it on both sides of the family.
The nieces always seem to have a lot to say. I can ask them questions about studies and jobs and life choices. The guys generally answer in monosyllabic grunts of yes or no. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has this difficulty because I've seen my adult relatives feel the same awkwardness when trying to talk to my teenage boys. Sometimes I'll jump in the conversation with stories, illustrations. My boys rarely volunteer examples.
Tomorrow, my nephew Michael comes back from Afghanistan. Our family will meet him at the airport. The crowd of well wishers will probably prevent one-on-one conversation, but some time in the week that he's home, I hope to get some time to talk with him. And I need a plan so I can have a real conversation.
Michael was the first child of my siblings, a surprise baby the year my little brother graduated college. I had just finished grad school and taken a job in far away Florida but I immediately fell in love with those big brown eyes and the unruly brown hair of his. My brother and his wife would travel to Florida to stay with me for vacations and I loved spending time with Michael. I gave him his first haircut and cleaned up his puke from too many chocolate donuts.
He was an overactive little guy and found mischief wherever he went -- like the time he stuck the tweezers in the outlet of my makeup mirror blowing the circuit or when he stamped his foot during our visit to the llama herd. He got a sword at Disney World and broke it the next day before making up the saddest song ever about how "Michael breaks his toys..."
It's strange that after sharing an aunt/nephew life with so many good memories, we now have awkward silences.
Michael is 24 now and has been in the Navy for five years. He volunteered for duty in Afghanistan rather than going back on the nuclear sub he has served on in the past. I'm proud of all he's accomplished, but there's not much of a response to "I'm proud of you."
So, any suggestions on conversations with young men who, when they were little, climbed in my lap, and now have nothing much to say?

Dangerous Mission

My nephew Michael was the first grandchild on both sides of the family. He was feted and corrected by more grandparents and aunts and uncles than he could count. Now he's almost 24 and has been in the Navy for nearly 5 years.
He served on a nuclear sub, which sounds dangerous, but keeps him away from road bombs. This year he decided to accept land duty in Afghanistan. He's in Texas training for what he's calling Afghan Deployment 2011.
I long for the days when a mischievous Michael tried hard to stay out of trouble.
At our house in Florida when little Michael visited, the lights suddenly dimmed and went out. I found a pair of tweezers stuck into the outlet on my makeup mirror. That tripped the breaker. We examined Michael's hand to make sure he hadn't burned himself.

Here's the whole gang except for the two youngest, including Tucker. Michael is on the right with his eyes closed.

Every time he visited us in Florida, he seemed to get bronchitis. One day, while eating Entenmann's chocolate donuts, he started to cough and threw up all over my favorite sweatshirt. As we were cleaning him up, he asked, "Can I have the rest of my donut now?"
My favorite Michael story is from when we were visiting my parents' blueberry farm in Kentucky. Michael must have been two years old and he had a little plastic tennis racket. Earl, who I was dating at the time, was in charge of Michael as he leaned over a little waterfall, running the racket under it again and again, as two years old will.
In a fraction of a second, Michael fell head first into the cold creek.
Earl says he still remembers the quiet of the countryside that second that Michael was face down in the water. Then Earl lifted him out feet first and his wails filled the air.
When Michael was 19, he joined the Navy. He rarely makes it home as he figures out what his adult life will look like, but he got home this spring and luckily, his flight came through Columbus. The boys went with me to the airport to see Michael off. We won't see him again until after his tour in Afghanistan.
My boys have grown in size to catch Michael, but they have years to go before they're ready to make decisions similar to Michael's.
When your kids, or even nephews, are making life-changing decisions as grown ups, all you can do is watch and hope for the best.
Thanks for your service, Michael, and come home safely.

Growing Up

One of my favorite pictures of all time was taken at my parents' blueberry farm in Kentucky more than 20 years ago. My nephew Michael, about two years old, was standing on rocks by a creek with a small waterfall. He was leaning over and swatting at the waterfall with a plastic tennis racket. His blue stretchy shorts cover a diaper. His brown hair stands in curls on his head.
The reason I love this picture is because I know the story of what happens next. My soon-to-be husband Earl was playing with Michael. He stood behind him on the rocks.
Minutes after the picture was taken, Michael fell head first into the creek. What Earl and I still remark on was the silence after that fall, until Earl reached in and pulled Michael out. Then the wailing filled the country air.
This week, Michael came home for Christmas. He is in the Navy and he hasn't been home for Christmas in four years. He drinks a lot of beer. He can drink 12 according to him. He has been married and then divorced when his new bride met his submarine and informed him she was moving in with her boyfriend. He has tattoos. He talks a lot and finds something in common with each of his younger cousins who have grown exponentially since he left four years ago.
He played guitar with Tucker and talked to Spencer about cars. He faked shock that Grace could be old enough to graduate high school.
His mother showed me the awards he had won for being indispensable while working on the nuclear sub.
The kids started talking about jobs and Spencer said he didn't want to be a lifeguard any more because the pressure was too much. Spencer saved four kids this summer and just worried that he might miss one.
Michael didn't bat an eye, but said, "I've saved millions."
We have no idea where Michael's sub goes and he can't tell us. We only know his whereabouts when he surfaces. So we get pictures from Hawaii where he was sunburned after months underwater, but mostly he hangs out in Seattle waiting for the next time he goes on sub duty again.
I watched him open the quilt my mother had made and wrap it around him. He has changed a lot from that impulsive two year old with the piled up curls. But that boy is still there inside him.