I used to reach for his hand when we crossed the street. Recently I did that, accidentally, and we both laughed.
I used to point out big trucks to him. And airplanes. And
fire trucks and ambulances and heavy equipment of all kinds. Basically, I
pointed out all larger-than-average vehicles. When I do it now, like I did
yesterday, just to see what he’d say, he glances over and says without missing
a beat, “Mom, that’s not a tractor.” He was right. It was a bulldozer.
Semantics.
Somewhere between the day almost twelve years ago when they
handed me that shockingly big-eyed bald bundle of life change and now, my job
description got rewritten.
You know that’s going to happen, though. Every new mom hears
“blink and you miss it,” “they grow up fast,” “enjoy them while they’re small,”
and variations thereof so often and with such earnest passion from moms who’ve
been there that she knows to expect it (please
believe me, that earnestness says, or
you’ll wake up one day to a broken heart). But then … well, then it happens. And then she’s the one saying
those things to other newbies, all the while thinking, how? How, when I knew it was
coming?
And it gets me thinking. When did I stop pointing out the
big trucks?
When did he stop looking?
When did I stop reaching for his hand?
When did he go from baby to little boy to this complex, stunningly
self-aware adolescent?
When did my job
description change?
From laughing because he said something cute to laughing
because he said something hilarious.
From walking alongside him to “Be careful; text me when you
get there.”
From cutting the crusts off his sandwiches (until the day he
told me he actually likes the crusts,
that is, and I realized I’d only been doing it because I don’t like the crusts) to asking him if he’s eaten lunch.
From songs and picture books at bedtime to “Hey, why are you
still up?!”
From teaching him to learning from him.
In a few years he’ll be driving. A couple more and it’s time
for college. We will have a half-empty nest and my heart will ache and I’ll
wonder, again, at the quirks and illusions of time.
But there’s still today. Today he regales me with sixth-grade
drama and small-scale injustices and his valiant attempts to right them, and I
share with him the best TV and music of the ‘90s and 2000s as he navigates the confusing
between-time with one foot in childhood and one in what comes next. Today he
makes me frustrated and annoyed and hopeful and proud, proud, proud.
Today, he doesn’t need me to hold his hand or point out the
big trucks. He needs me to listen when he explains the inner workings of his
latest speed cube, to marvel over his artwork and praise his patience with his
little sister and his wild ability to recall minor details of all kinds. Today
he needs me to be his mom, sure, but also his friend. And I’m happy, excited, blessed to be both as he makes his relentless
way toward adulthood.
It’s going to happen fast. I won’t
see it coming.
But I’m paying attention.
