I
sat in the rocking chair holding my baby boy. I tried to burn into my memory
how it felt to hold him, to imprint on my mind every line on his peaceful
little face and tiny hands, and the funny expressions he made while sleeping.
Everyone told me he would grow up all too fast, so I was determined to treasure
each moment.
I turned
around, and he was going to school. He was so proud of his lunchbox. He laughed
and ran and played and dug in dirt piles, and took naps on the porch with the
dogs. He broke both of his arms falling off a horse when it jumped a creek. His
daddy cried, but he didn’t.
My heart
almost burst watching his grandfather teach him how to take up the offering at
church. And I smiled every time I saw my son and his PaPa sleeping up against
each other through a few sermons, too.
I blinked,
and my little boy was playing Little League baseball. Some of the other players
gave him a not-so-nice nickname. I wanted so badly to jump in and protect him
from any hurt, but I stepped back when I saw that he had proudly written the
nickname on his baseball glove and went on about his business unperturbed. He
severely broke one of his arms falling off a horse again. His daddy cried, but
he didn’t. We spent the night in chairs beside his hospital bed.
It’s getting harder to remember
what it felt like in that rocker…
I
climbed in the car one day, and several years passed by the time I climbed out.
I could not wait for this child to get his driver’s license and start
chauffeuring himself around. Oh yeah—I’m supposed to dread that. He
stopped riding horses. The smile disappeared from his daddy’s face. Relief
appeared on his momma’s. He started playing football. His daddy started smiling
again.
I stopped
to catch my breath, and he was in high school. Student Council—One Act
Play—Football—Science Club—Slow down! Slow down! It’s starting to blur…
I looked
down in my lap to see a graduation program. It’s too soon! My head jerked up to see him giving his
salutatory speech. And when he talked about his grandparents, his daddy cried,
and this time he did, too. I watched his father hand him a diploma. It was
supposed to slow down because I knew from the start that it would go all too
fast. But knowing that fact didn’t slow it down one bit.
He’ll be leaving soon, but I’ll
be ready.
In
August we made the migratory trek to college with thousands of other molting
parents attempting to shed their offspring. We grunted and groaned two couches
and half a ton of miscellanea up to a second-story apartment, along with a
wardrobe of t-shirts chronicling most every event in his teenage years. We had
more fun helping him arrange his new apartment and new life on his own. I felt
only happiness for him—no regrets of his leaving home.
Van & Vanessa
We said
goodbye as we left him with the other freshmen heading for Fish Camp. We
waved at the departing busloads as student sponsors hung out the windows
screaming, “You’re never gonna see your kids again!” and coaching their netted
fish to holler in unison, “We love you, Mom and Dad!” to blubbering parents.
His daddy cried, but he didn’t. I felt only joy for my son.
I had
prepared myself well. I didn’t feel one bit of sadness throughout the four-hour
trip home. I smiled to myself.
This was too easy! Bring on the
next child! I’ve got this empty nest thing figured out.
We pulled
into the driveway of our home.
That’s funny. The house looks
different.
I started to open the door, and a
vice grip began squeezing my chest. I walked into the kitchen and tried to
swallow the huge lump that suddenly appeared in my throat.
Where did that come from?
I went to the bathroom and began
scrubbing the shower stall my son had been after me to clean… before he left
home.
And the dam broke.
I’m doing
much better now, though. It’s only when I see a little boy taking up the
offering at church, or holding his mommy’s hand, or playing football, or
running or laughing or just walking by that I get a little choked up.
But a smile
comes, too, with the memories.
Monterrey, 2016
I wrote this after Van went to college, and am posting it today in honor of his birthday.
Love you muchas, Van.
(Will this get me in the big house now?)
