And the boy, who is gaining on me in height with each passing day, actually waved to me from karate class.
I want to remember it, this moment. So I capture it here.
I wish I could run up to him with mobile lens at the ready like I used to when he was a toddler or little boy. Back when nothing I did embarrassed him.
So I settle for a snap of Respect and Responsibility high on the wall. And write it down.
He’s 12 years old. This boy-almost-teen.
I’m glad he’s still little boy enough to wave hi with a grin to his mom watching on the sidelines.
Boy: Mommy! I love you! You let me eat bread and jelly!
I rest my case.
Took the kids to fast food for lunch yesterday. After we consumed our required grease and calories, I witnessed my Edmund sort of mauled by several younger boys in the “Play Place.”
Did you hear me laughing? Because I did – it was hysterical.
My nine-year boy climbed on, poked, and wrestled upon as if he were the jungle gym. There were two brothers (I’m guessing 5 and 7 years old.) plus a towhead 3-year-old, with a fondness of using his little fists. He was the unofficial ringleader. They were rough.
As I wiped away the laughter tears, it occurred to me just how far my own boys have come from that behavior. Nowadays it’s mostly fragging each other on Halo. Days here now are more big boy problems like name calling or jealously or who won’t help clean up their bedroom. The need to roughhouse like nippy puppies is gone.
Which is one of the reason why I was laughing so hard. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it in action. And poor Edmund! I think he was overwhelmed. He escaped the plastic tubes and vowed to never go inside them again. He’s a patient boy.
I made another observation: the eldest boy was getting frustrated with his younger brother. His play started to cross over into “I didn’t like that, so I’m going to hurt you for real.” I felt bad for him.
While Edmund had the wisdom to escape what he didn’t like, this younger boy shoved too hard in his anger. I suspect it has something to do with only being seven.
Brothers seven and five is much harder than 12 and halfway to 10.
Where were the moms? Taking a few moments to linger over their French fries. I remember those days too. Conversation uninterrupted. This is not me writing a warning for you to hover over your little boys in public. This post is about me recalling those hard days when I never thought my boys would be civilized in polite company.
Like I said: halfway to 10 – it’s like light years away from impatient at seven. Hang in there, moms of young brothers.
Did you expect anything different, Monica?