Each morning my son staggers downstairs, his sleep-filled eyes finding the one person he momentarily needs: me. He throws his nine year old body onto me for our good morning hug, and then he's reeling around the kitchen, talking in his everychanging nine year old voice about his dreams, his sleep, and his day ahead. Usually, he's starving, and we begin our breakfast dance of what he can and cannot have until he is able to settle on an acceptable breakfast. Cereal. Each morning begins the same.
My son vacillates between maturity and childhood; he wants me to leave him alone, but he throws himself at me, hugging me, begging me not to go to work. He's done this for seven years, and I suspect he continues this routine to make me feel better about leaving. He knows I'd rather be with him. He likes to choose his own clothes but will still, occasionally, ask me if something matches. And then there are those days when he's in costume: navy blue t-shirt (often a size or two too small), black athletic shorts, white socks, brown hiking boots, a belt with a scabbard and a sword. People stare, but really, he's a child in a body the size of an 11 year old. He puts temporary tattoos all over his body; he looks like he's a hoodlum sometimes. He draws on himself, eats pencils and erasers, and infrequently listens to what I tell him.
But he's amazing. He reads long books, allowing the characters to live in his head for days at a time. He giggles at funny faces. He plays serious computer games that involve parking cars or riding skateboards over hills, talking all the while to himself. He lives in filth, laughing each time he's forced to clean up his room. He took initiative and great pride in decorating a notebook for school. We play silly games, like predicting what vehicle is next to drive down the street, but he writes thoughtful, mature and complex sentences for his vocabulary homework.
The other day he brought home an advertisement for the highly gifted program in his school district, announcing to me that he'd already read the document and that he fit most of the criteria to join the program. He asked me to recommend him. This is the same child who cries over homework being 'too hard.' The next day he announced he wants to be in the band as a drummer. His father was elated; I wondered where my headphones are hiding.
The world is open to my son at 9 years old. I hate to squelch any interests he has, which is why I find myself saying yes to drums, yes to applying for highly gifted, yes to library runs, and yes to karate. I remember laying on the bed, watching his baby self discover hands, feet, and mouth, and now he's discovering girls, music, and himself.
The journey of my parenthood has been an amazing adventure so far. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find water on concrete fascinating, construction trucks mesmorizing, trash trucks exciting, or bugs interesting. Parenthood is another chance to live in magic, the world of pretend, to experience once again the joys of our world. My son, unknowingly, has changed me in unimaginable ways, and I'm so grateful to have the opportunity of this journey. Parenthood is the hardest, most enjoyable job I've ever had.
