Coming of age
Every summer since he was 5, Noah has gone to Florida for a week to stay with L’s parents. Each time he’s gone, I’ve missed him (but try not to harp on how much during our phone conversations) and each time he comes back a little bit older, and I don’t just mean in days.
This year, there was another person missing him, too. “Wo-ah,” he’d say as he clomped around the house, going to Noah’s door to give it a push one more time to see if maybe this time it would open.
Even though Noah is the oldest, and in many ways requires less physical “work” from us now than he did and the other two currently do, having him gone is a bit of a reprieve for us—we go back to the old cliched “man to man” defense. Everyone’s in bed before 8:30. No one is listening with a keen ear to our adult conversations.
Still, I prefer him here. We all do.
The day after he came back he got his own breakfast, offered to help set the table, cleaned the living room without being asked, was engaged in conversation in a new way. He was older, bigger, lankier. He just keeps on keepin’ on, that kid. Swifter, higher, stronger.
And tomorrow he starts third grade. Third! K, 1, 2, THIRD. Bananas. Ridiculous. Amazing. Bananas.
Glad you’re home, young scholar. In the morning, grade three.