Phasing
My son sliced his leg open tonight at a church activity. He was out with a group of other kids, ages 12-18, picking up trash along the highway. Doing service. Apparently, though the story is not clear, he was holding a trash bag with a piece of metal in it and somehow the metal cut his leg.
I wasn't there.
I wasn't there when the dirty, sharp metal broke my boy's skin and made him bleed.
He still had blood on his leg when he got home. And his hands. He said it didn't hurt.
In truth, it's a wicked cut but not particularly bad. A smooth gash on precious skin. (Don't fret, he had a tetanus shot just before school started.) After a long soak in the bathtub, he said it only hurt a little. Now the cut is bandaged, antibiotic-ed, and tucked in bed with the little boy that isn't little anymore.
I've come to grips I'm coming to grips with the idea that I'm moving on. Getting older. Growing gray hair. My children aren't babies anymore. No more diapers (that's good), no more onesies, no more binkys, no more bottles, no more stumbling first steps, no more first laughs. There are still milestones, but they are different milestones. Older milestones. Milestones I remember from my own youth.
It's very strange. I don't feel like time is passing. And yet, it speeds by, leaving an obvious imprint on the faces of my children. A train with no stops until the end.
I taste the tang of separation. My daughter is gone most of the day, out of my control, out of my sight, out of my care. I worked so long and hard to bring her home, I feel like I should still be stuck back there - back when she was a wee thing with a blue binky. But, she keeps racing onward, onward, onward.
And my son - my son. He's 12. His feet are as big as mine. He's five feet tall. He's had his first crush, his first love note (from someone else to him, how cute is that!), he's changing. He's changing!
I watch them, these two brilliant lights, as they streak by. I am standing still, but they do not pause. They cannot wait, I would not let them anyhow.
All I can do is grab the tail of the comet and hold on.
I wasn't there.
I wasn't there when the dirty, sharp metal broke my boy's skin and made him bleed.
He still had blood on his leg when he got home. And his hands. He said it didn't hurt.
In truth, it's a wicked cut but not particularly bad. A smooth gash on precious skin. (Don't fret, he had a tetanus shot just before school started.) After a long soak in the bathtub, he said it only hurt a little. Now the cut is bandaged, antibiotic-ed, and tucked in bed with the little boy that isn't little anymore.
It's very strange. I don't feel like time is passing. And yet, it speeds by, leaving an obvious imprint on the faces of my children. A train with no stops until the end.
I taste the tang of separation. My daughter is gone most of the day, out of my control, out of my sight, out of my care. I worked so long and hard to bring her home, I feel like I should still be stuck back there - back when she was a wee thing with a blue binky. But, she keeps racing onward, onward, onward.
And my son - my son. He's 12. His feet are as big as mine. He's five feet tall. He's had his first crush, his first love note (from someone else to him, how cute is that!), he's changing. He's changing!
I watch them, these two brilliant lights, as they streak by. I am standing still, but they do not pause. They cannot wait, I would not let them anyhow.
All I can do is grab the tail of the comet and hold on.
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