Fifteen-year-old Troll 2 has since infancy been a source of so many emotions for me. Childbirth, for one, was exponentially more difficult than with his older brother, and due to a sequence of crazy, unexpected events, Troll 2 was born on my way to the theatre, on the floor.
Not on a bed, surrounded by a doctor or a nurse. On the floor. Outside of the theatre.
The one moment I had not dilated quite far enough, and the next, there he was, with all the ferocious, unbounded energy he has come to be the epitome of, leaping out of me.
We could have both died that day, but we didn”;t. The Almighty had much bigger plans for that boy than a life prematurely cut short.
I had loved my youngest son then as completely and unconditionally as I do now. And I have loved him in all the weird, beautiful, tough, demanding moments in between.
As a chubby little chocolate toddler teddy bear, with all his giggles and peanut butter kisses, on his first day of school when he was so excited he barely slept a wink the night before, as a pre-teen finding his likes, dislikes, loyalty and disdain … and now, as a 15-year-old powerhouse who towers over me and is as fiercely protective over his loved ones as no one who has ever lived has ever been.
Troll 2 loves life, loves laughing, loves talking, loves eating – and lately, for the past six months or so, loves painting. As in he literally woke up one day, without prior warning, and decided he was becoming an artist. I say “;warning”; because Troll 2 and his newfound passion hit his older brother, Troll 1, and I like a massive, run-for-cover, blow-the-roof-off tornado.
Paper everywhere. Drawings everywhere. Paintbrushes, sketchbooks, coal pencils, powder paint, liquid paint absolutely everywhere.
I was so annoyed. His brother was so annoyed. Because, well, truth be told, we thought it was a fluke. A phase. An out-of-control hobby created specifically by his twisted little mind to irritate us and litter in the house.
Until at the end of last school term, when it turned out Troll 2 has actual, bona fide talent and is an actual, bona fide artist.
And then, because real talent shuts down even the staunchest of haters, his older brother and I had no alternative but to sit down and shut up.
What makes an artist? What makes some people see beauty in even the ugliest of situations? I look at Troll 2 and his work, and I wonder what on earth gave him the audacity to see the world in so much light and in such colour.
As the product of a single-parent home, Troll 2 knows a life of lack. He knows what it”;s like to go to bed hungry, what it”;s like to have the lights off, what it”;s like to focus on needs, and not on wants.
But he also knows a life of love so big, all else pales in comparison.
In the next couple of days my baby boy will be part of his first art exhibition. He is, as per usual, super excited. And his brother and I … are strapping in to ride that tornado with him.
– urbansinglemom@gmail.com
