We spotted this balloon as we drove down the road late yesterday afternoon. A Monday, on the way to the Y for Martial Arts and working out.
The almost-teen boy and I. Quiet in the car, thinking our own private thoughts when I asked him to snap the picture.
I want to write about soaring and growing up and the difference in car riding with a 12-year-old compared to a two-year-old. Or any child under the age of ten. That moment yesterday in the van is lost to me now. All I wanted to say and write, risen in my thoughts as we were quiet – it’s forgotten.
Except for this image of the balloon.
I wonder where it landed?
I think of my boy.
I wonder where he will land. He, along with the test of his siblings, is just starting to soar.
This is probably the most unimpressive picture of a hot air balloon that you will see shared, but it’s all I’ve got. Photo by my 12-year-old boy.
Dirty windshield by me. Note to self: must wash car.
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.
Eight. A time to be missing your front teeth. What a great age!
Happy Birthday, young master.