This One Goes to 11

Yesterday was Ben’s 11^th birthday.  How is it possible 11 years have gone by since I held that baby in my arms and dreamed big dreams for him?

I’ve shared a lot of Ben with you over the years. His loves, his quirks, his fascinating brain and his befuddling (and often hilarious) behavior. I love his beautiful spirit and the wonderful weirdness he brings to our lives. I’ve shared stories about his love of music, his legendary iPod and his encyclopedic knowledge of all that resides thereon. I’ve shown you his lists and chronicled the adventures of his beloved Lego Guy. I once told you how he labeled with Post-Its all the spaces in our house when we moved in with the Crandells and showed you months later when I found the last sticky-note still stuck under the dining room table. It read, “Under Table.” I’ve been nearly run out of Facebook-Land on a rail for recounting his obsession with a truly creepy scary clown mask (mostly because I insist of photographing it, scaring the bejeezus out of unsuspecting visitors to my Facebook page).

But when I was considering what to write for Ben’s 11^th birthday, I started thinking I had nothing left to share. And then he forgot to take his binder to school today. He texted asking me to bring it to him and when I saw the binder lying on floor in his room, I knew exactly what to write.

Earlier this year, after watching the Oscars, Ben Googled, made a list and then printed a small picture of the movie poster for every Best Picture Oscar winner since the Academy Awards began in 1929. When he started the project he told me he wanted to decorate his binder with them. I pictured a sheet of paper (or more likely two) with several small images inserted into the clear sleeve on the front of his binder. I thought maybe he’d trade out the two sheets from time to time to display different posters. He did, in fact, print several images on each sheet, but then he meticulously cut them apart until he had 84 mini movie posters, each one about 1 ½” tall x 1” wide.

Every day he displays one (and only one) of the mini movie posters in the front sleeve of his binder. One barely-larger-than-postage-stamp sized image on the front of a binder that measures 10.5” x 11”.  Today: “A Man for All Seasons,” Best Picture winner in 1966. I have no idea where he keeps the 83 others not currently in use, but I have no doubt I’ll find out when I pack up his room this weekend.

Ben is not the 11-year-old I thought I’d have and my dreams for him have certainly changed over the years. But those dreams have by no means become smaller, because Ben is so much more—so much “bigger”—than the 11-year-old I naively imagined when I held that baby in my arms all those years ago (his diminutive binder decorations aside).