It would appear that the grubby hand of winter has at last released the Dallas area from its wanton grip. Very indecisive is our winter, but once it gets in its last grope, you don’t see hide nor hair of it until November at the earliest.
The warmer weather means the return of many things, from lawnmowing to mosquitoes to nightly showers to wash off the day’s sticky film before bedtime. For my son, it means that the inside of our house is the last place he wants to be after school. Since he’s only 2 and a half years old, his outdoor explorations require an escort, usually me.
This spring is very different from our last. Back then, we had a 1 and a half year old who could barely walk unsupported, and seldom made it halfway down the block without upsies. This year, the second we open the car door in the driveway, out barrels a fully mobile chatterbox twice the size of other kids his age, who’ll be halfway across the yard before you can catch him.
Our neighborhood has a lot of kids. They’re generally in elementary-to-junior-high range, at least the ones out playing. My son watches them with rapt attention. Taking notes.
It was yesterday that it finally dawned on me: I am no longer the father of a baby. What I’ve got here is a boy.
It’s a pity that the teenage years follow boyhood. They can blur some of the good memories of youth, which lay in front of my boy as yet unexplored, ready to be cracked open with sticks and rocks and plastic bazookas and what have you.
Prior to teendom, I had a pretty good youth. Lots of exploring forgotten corners of our rural subdivision, imaginary space travel, role playing, and bad jokes. While I’ve never gone much for strict gender roles, when it came to boyhood games I fit the XY stereotype fairly closely. Everything was a potential weapon, battle strategies occupied inordinate amounts of my time, and I did indeed watch professional wrestling and got pretty worked up about it.
Though I was one of those weird creative kids who also staged plays and made radio shows on cassette, at that age such activities didn’t make one uncool. I had friends, and enemies were fairly benign. There were occasional fights among boys stemming from ridiculous disputes that were forgotten quickly, and grudges generally never lasted long.
Now, after two years of feeling submerged completely over my head in the murky waters of infant care, my baby’s transformation into a little boy brings a rush of relief, like a lead mattress lifted off of my back. Here, at last, is something I know how to do.
True, we’re a bit early for a lot of boyhood activities. One of the neighbor kids saw my son coveting his skateboard, and let him play with it. Though he tried a few times to stand up on it (anchored steadily by me), he mostly pushed it around on the sidewalk. He seems to know he can’t ride a bike, but he watches the bicycling kids with an unmistakable air of ambition.
Somewhat unexpectedly, my realization yesterday that he had in fact stepped over the baby/boy line sent me into a bit of a giddy frenzy. I ran out and bought him his own skateboard, so he didn’t have to borrow one to play with it. I eyed the bicycles greedily, wanting to give him that measure of independence I’d felt when I could hop on my red-and-white Huffy and ride anywhere I wanted. Shifting back to the reality of my very dependent 2-year-old, I bought a red-and-blue tricycle instead.
Having a giant child is difficult in many ways. Older kids think he’s their age and are confused when his speech is garbled. Diaper manufacturers thin their selections in the 4-year-old range, which is the size he wears despite his age. And I’m a little afraid that he’s already too big for a tricycle. We’ll see soon. I hid it in the garage because I belatedly remembered that I was supposed to be frugal until my check came in this Friday. We’ll try the three-wheeler out on Saturday and see what the little bugger makes of it.
He wants so much to be a part of the play-mob on our street. And at his age, that desire doesn’t give me the stomach aches that I get when imagining his future efforts to belong in teen crowds. Right now he’s a boy, and boys just play. Sure, some of them do the mind games, but in my memory at least, that sort of thing is easily ignored if someone else has a ball or Frisbee around.
I realize there will be downsides to this era. Toy commercials, now incomprehensible to him, will suddenly become potent siren songs. The minutiae of cartoon character personalities and attributes will take up inordinate amounts of mental space. Friends will be chosen by his discretion, not mine, and there are bound to be some troublemakers brought into my house. And greater independence means greater possibility for injury, mischief, and potentially deadly blunders.
But for all of that, I suppose I feel better because we’re now in territory I recognize. I remember nothing of infancy, and as mentioned earlier in this space, spent my adult life avoiding contact with babies. It’s hardly surprising that I completely freaked out when that became my 24/7 reality for a couple of years. Boyhood, though, is familiar ground. Now I can be useful. It’s a wonderful feeling.
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