Don't Blink

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?)