Redemption!

I was busy preparing dinner last night when the front door opened and The Boy arrived, scooter in one hand and backpack in the other, home from adventures with friends down the street.  More and more these days, seeing him walk through the door catches me off guard, because he just looks so damn grown.  Not completely, of course - he’s not even in high school yet - but in the past year he has been maturing at a startling speed.  He’s as tall as I am now, lean and lank and boyishly handsome, with just a hint of a moustache developing.  No longer my little boy, but not yet a man.  “Oh....it’s you,” I teased, feigning disappointment.

He returned the greeting in similar fashion, and casually added, “I think I’m going to need a Band-Aid.”

“Oh dear,” I said.  “What happened?”

“No big deal,” he said.  ‘We were playing outside with sticks as pretend clubs, and I swung a little too hard and cut myself.”  He strode over to the kitchen and showed me his hand; a small cut in the soft area between his thumb and first finger was just barely oozing.  “I wasn’t even sure if I’d need a Band-Aid.”

I resisted an old ingrained urge to take over, to take him to the medicine cabinet and wash his hand and put on a Band-Aid and taa-daa, make it all better.  He’d have probably been insulted anyway, so I just nodded agreeably instead.  “Band-Aids are in the medicine cabinet.  But I’d wash that first.”

“Oh, I already did, but I will again,” he said as he headed off down the hall.  So grown-up sounding, I thought again.  After a couple of minutes, he returned to the kitchen.  “Band-Aids are amazing,” he said, and held his hand out toward me.  “Doesn’t even hurt anymore.”

A moment later, he held out his other hand.  “Oh, and uh, guess what I made?”

In his hands he held what appeared to be a crinkled handful of newspaper, held in place here and there with tape.  “Ummmm....you made a ball of paper?”

The Boy grinned self-deprecatingly.  “Yeah okay, well, it’s wrapping.  Can you guess what’s in it?”

I tried to think of a good smart-ass answer, but couldn’t seem to settle on one.  After a few moments, he let me off the hook.  “It’s....a mug!” he declared, starting to unwind the paper ball.

“A mug?” I repeated.  “That’s kind of...random.  Where did you get a mug?”

“I made it in art class.”  He freed the mug from the wad of paper and held it up.  It was large and ceramic, clearly sculpted and painted by hand.  He gave me an awkward smile.  “And, I thought, maybe, it could be a....delayed....Mother’s Day gift.”

He handed the mug to me, and for a moment I could only stand in silence.  He immediately began cataloging flaws in the mug - the paint had bubbled in one spot, he had trouble getting the handle right, he wasn’t very good at painting, and so on.  As I turned the mug over in my hands, I delighted over the unique little bubbles in the paint, the oddly-shaped handle, the somewhat irregular borders of its painted stripe.  It was a classic Mother’s Day gift.  I even flipped the mug upside-down to find his name carved into the ceramic.

Still holding the mug, I pulled him into my arms for a long hug, and kissed him on the cheek.  “I love it, sweetie.  Thank you.”

“There’s kindofa crack in the side near the handle, too,” he said, looking embarrassed.  “I fixed it a bunch of times, but I could never get it quite right.”

“Well that’s the thing about mugs,” I smiled.  “They’re pretty heavy for the handle.  Hard to make a big mug like this and get the handle just right.  I never could do it myself, but this looks pretty good!”  I hugged him and kissed him again before letting him escape.

That’s The Boy for ya.  Maybe he doesn’t always show his appreciation when and how I might expect, but the appreciation is there.  Maybe he’s a little uncomfortable with sentimentality, but that’s understandable at his age.  Not quite a man, not a little child...but still my little boy once in a while.

Check it out folks, it's a MUG SHOT!
....hello?

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Brick

When I was a little girl, my mother used to tell me that I was growing up too fast. She also used to tell me she was going to tie a brick to my head so that I wouldn't grow anymore. As I grew even older and taller, she'd lament that she hadn't used the bricks, telling me she was going to order me to fail all my classes in school so that I would never graduate and move away. Through all her sentimental protestations, I simply rolled my eyes.

Then before I knew it, I was a grownup, then a wife, then a mother. My own son was born, and by the time he was a preschooler I was telling him the same thing. Well, not the bricks - that was my mother's thing. No, my approach was more hands-on.

"You're growing too fast!" I'd say. "I'm going to squish you so you stay little." I would then put my hands on top of his head and press down, lightly of course, but making a big show of effort and plenty of "hurrrrggghhhh!" sound effects. Giggling, he'd crouch down, and I'd let go in triumph.

Moments later, he'd pop back up as though spring-loaded. "NOPE, I'M STILL GROWING!" he'd squeal delightedly, while I pouted and stomped my foot.

Folks, I've been more than usually sentimental about it this year. Maybe it's because he turned the big 1-0. Double digits. Out of elementary school and on to intermediate school. And while I know I've been watching this happen every day, seen every one of those years from birth to ten pass before my eyes, it still feels like he's grown up behind my back somehow. He makes me laugh often now, not in a "Kids Say the Darndest Things" kind of way, but with real wit, intention, and a keen sense of satire and comic timing. We have conversations these days that are less mother/little kid and more conversations that I would have with anyone, talks about beliefs and politics and day-to-day stuff.

Anyway. I was running errands today, all the little here and there mini-quests that I've been putting off. I finished up at the post office - just around the corner from Duncan's new school - around the same time that school was letting out. So I was driving home past the school during the mass exodus of wave after wave of children. Waiting at the traffic light, I looked off to my left and sure enough, I saw my little man.

I wasn't there to pick him up. He was unaware of my presence. And sitting alone in my car at that moment I had this weird feeling like I was looking through a window into his private, increasingly independent world, his world outside that didn't include me. He was just walking down the street, confident of his own way, bookbag slung over his shoulder, chatting and laughing with friends on his way home. And suddenly I had something in my eye, because dammit, he looked so grown up. Not my little one, but a pre-teen, all Wonder Years and stuff. The light changed, and I drove on without alerting him.

Mom, you were right. We all grow up too fast. I rolled my eyes at your sentimentality, just as I'm pretty sure Duncan now rolls his eyes at mine. I'd say I can't wait until he has a child of his own and understands it himself, but you know what? I can. I really can.

Happy Father's Day

A Few Things My Dad Did For Me:

Taught me how to swim.

Never 'let' me win at chess.

Bought me my very own C64 at a time when the kids I knew just didn't have personal computers, encouraged my love of puzzle games and math programs, and insisted I learn Basic.

Took away my C64 privileges when I decided it was more fun than applying myself at schoolwork.

Took me with him to the darkroom when he had an interest in amateur photography for a few years in the military...to this day the smell of a photo lab makes me sentimental.

Had the wackiest sense of humor of anyone I knew, and taught me not to take myself too seriously.

Spent weeks at a time coming home from a long day at work only to drive me all the way across town and sit long through the dinner hour in a rehearsal area when I decided I wanted to do community theatre instead of the high school play.

Always seemed to know when I needed a kick in the ass, or a lecture, and when I just really needed an understanding ear instead.

I couldn't have picked a better guy myself. I love you, Dad.

She Cooks a Mean Breakfast, Too

To one of the most amazing, beautiful women I have ever known...

To a woman who sings along unabashedly with the in-store music at the grocery store.

To the woman smiles with her whole face and laughs with her whole body and heart, and makes me feel clever and funny for causing that laugh.

To the woman who stood up for the rights of others as leader of the Diversity Team in her workplace, even after it earned her hate mail and harrassment.

To the woman who writes letters and sends packages to soldiers in Iraq who otherwise get no mail from home.

To the woman who taught me right from wrong, and inspires me to try and make her proud.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.