At the risk of sounding like every other mom on the planet, extending clichéd shock at the rapid growth of my own kids, I’m doing just that this weekend. How did my third son get to be a high school graduate?
When did this happen? Somehow, right under my nose, I’ve gone from young mom with a happy troupe of little people following me into the library, onto the sand, over the bridge, and under the redwood trees, to a mom of two adult men and another about to graduate from high school. They have jobs and girlfriends and the oldest now has his own apartment and a coffee table and placemats. He gave me a lunch date for Mother’s Day.
My heart. My heart feels all sorts of erratic out-of-sync sloppiness. One moment I’m coloring with the kindergartener at the kitchen table and the next I’m discussing the effects of patriarchy on the Judeo-Christian mindset with my very old young men. They teach me stuff. They call my bluff in a gentle way that is different from how my daughters approach my hypocrisy and shortcomings. They are men, and my heart is falling out all over the bamboo flooring.
Jack, Age 9
