The other night, we stopped at 7-11 on our way home, and my husband and my oldest son went inside to buy Slurpees for us all. That’s right, Slurpees. Because we are Americans, and we like Slurpees.
As they walked out, I couldn’t help but watch my firstborn child as he stumbled out the door, trying to keep up with my husband, saying something to him that required him to look up into my husband’s face quite seriously. Probably asking for a video game.
I watched his legs. They fascinate me. My legs are, like my mother and father’s legs before me, not long. My legs are sturdy, but they are sturdy because they are more in the shape of tree trunks. Short tree trunks. My son’s legs, though, are spindly and never-ending. I stare at them often, because I can’t believe how long they are. They are like the legs of a baby giraffe or a horse — too much for him to control gracefully, yet so light and lithe that they give him an almost fragile appearance.
Mason is almost ten and a half now. He has armpit hair. He has a growing sagacity in his eyes. His fingers are nimble and purposeful. He is losing the last of his baby teeth, and he doesn’t even bother putting them in his tooth pillow anymore. We’re thinking about middle school and the next steps for him.
But there, in the light of the fluorescence from the convenience store and the moon combined, I could see small shadows on his knobby knees — small bruises from his daily play — and that he had on mismatched socks. The ties on his shoes were askew and dragging a little bit because he tends to double- and triple-tie them and they grow ratty and ragged from wear. He was dipping the spooned end of the Slurpee straw into his cup and sipping from it gingerly.
And I whispered a small, quiet thank you to the universe that he is still, in some ways, a child — that he is still a little awkward, still my boy, that there is still time with him. I feel the pull of the years upon him, and us. I feel him beginning to step into the world and away from his little attic bedroom with the window that looks into tree limbs and the bed covered in stuffed animals. I don’t know how much longer he will stay up late, squatting on his bedroom floor, building Lego creations by lamplight. I wonder how much longer I will find candy wrappers or random poetry written in crayon on plain white printer paper under his bed. I find the books — so many books — stacked under and around and in his bedcovers, and I remember my own childhood full of books, and I second guess my plans to give him a Kindle for Christmas. I love the clutter of books. I love that my child has a bedroom cluttered with books.
Thank you, universe, for giving me a little more time. Thank you for not letting it fly by so fast that I don’t notice him before it is too late. Thank you for letting his face still reflect the face of the baby I had ten years ago. Thank you for letting his skin still be soft, for the small bruises on his knees that show me how vulnerable and alive he is, for his mop of sandy hair that I would recognize anywhere. Thank you for my boy, my first boy.
Making me cry again
This made my eyes tear up. Jonathan is a year older than Mason and still displays those glimpses of being my baby. But they are not so frequent. He is almost as tall as me now, is in middle school and wears deodorant.. I am proud of the smart grown boy he is growing up to be, but at the same time, I miss the little boy he was.
Crying my eyes out. And, another proof of kindred spirits: Grace is getting a Kindle for Christmas, and I am full of trepidation about it, for the same reasons. xox
Oh, how this hits home for me. My boy no longer has the knobby knees, soft skin, or baby face. He turned from that boy into a young man in a blink. But I can still see it, that little boy, if I look hard enough, and I can still feel it in his hugs (even though my head can rest on his shoulder now, rather than the other way around). I am so grateful for those ordinary little boy memories like the ones you just shared, and I am also thankful for the man he is becoming.
Another great post!
How sweet and lovely. My boy seemed to have skipped the whole awkward, knobby knee stage and gone straight to bild and brawny but he is still my boy, my first, my only boy. Especially when he’s tired, and his lovely finds his way into his hands and he falls asleep… unguarded.
So funny as my nickname for my eldest is “Baby Giraffe” because that is exactly what she looks like, Love this age.
OH, this is so right and true and speaks to me. My oldest is 8.5 and I can see all the things you’re talking about–the mix of big kid and little kid stuff. Plus my “big guy” is so tall for his age so he’s especially big and little at the same time. You know what I mean? I know you do!
Beautiful piece!
I love your descriptions of your boy, your family. Some woman are meant to be mothers. You are definitely one of them.