We Love the Flag

When my son, Wyatt, was about three years old, he was such a handful. He would escape from my house and run to the neighbors' yard and jump on their trampoline. The trampoline which happened to be set up on top of concrete. He would run away from me in stores and hide amongst the rounders of clothes like a little mouse and I would panic and call the security guard and he would just walk up to me like it was no big deal. He would cry if we couldn't drive by every fire station in town to see the "rojos" or fire trucks. But most of all, he loved the flag.

Every time we went to Harmon's grocery store, he would try to run across the parking lot (!) to the huge flagpole to look up at the giant flag they have there. I would have to be Johnny-on-the-spot every time I took him to the store so he went directly from car seat to grocery cart seat. Both with buckles blazing. He wanted to hold every flag we saw in the store. He just loved to wave the flag. This came in handy when I needed to distract him. I made up a little song to sing while we waved our flags, and it went, "We love the flag, We love the flag," sung over and over to the tune of "Three Blind Mice." Not poetry, but something a three-year-old could grasp.

One day, I noticed that the house was quiet and I sprinted to the front door, wondering where my boy was. Not to worry. He was totally naked and parading in front of my house dragging our Boy Scout flag behind him on the sidewalk, singing "We Love the Flag" at the top of his lungs. This is our flag. You can see that it has a hole worn into it from where he dragged it on the ground. And every time I look at it, for some reason I am not angry that he ruined our flag or embarrassed that three of my neighbors witnessed this parade. I am grateful. Grateful that my son was patriotic at such a young age. Grateful that he loved the flag, of all things. And grateful that he wasn't afraid to tell everyone how he felt about it. We love you, America. We love the flag.