I was pregnant with our first kid years ago when approached on my way up a hiking trail by a woman headed down with her teenage sons.
“Remember it,” she told me, a complete stranger. “They grow up fast.”
It’s midnight and I start writing from the rocking chair in our boys’ room. All is quiet except for the soft snoring of Abe, 6, curled sideways with his head resting on a book about clouds. In the other bed, I’d almost swear that Ike, 4, has outgrown his pajamas — my favorites, with the striped pants and the orange airplane flying around his shirt — since falling asleep hours ago.
This is the best chair in the warmest room in our house. It’s my favorite place to sit, watching them and reminding myself to remember.
We enter parenthood hard-wired to love the way our kids smell, to relish watching them eat and to take weird pleasures, some of us, even in cleaning their noses.
But nobody warns you that every way they grow can feel like a loss. Who knew how tough it would be to give away a rocking horse, toss out their artwork or watch them ride off on a field trip?
Who is ready for your preschooler — one who barely recognizes his letters — to rattle off Beastie Boys lyrics?
And who is unfazed by your kindergartner pulling away in the schoolyard, asking could you please cut back on the hand-holding, at least in public?
Brutal.
As was this conversation last week after flying home from Thanksgiving:
Abe: “Mom, you lied.”
Me: “About what?”
Abe: “That people used to smoke on planes.”
Me: “Why is that a lie?”
Abe: “Because they screen people at the airport.”
Me, pausing: “I don’t get it.”
Abe, annoyed: “They screen people. You know, in those machines. Dangerous people. And smoking is dangerous.”
Me, trying not to laugh.
Abe, crying because I’m laughing.
Me, lamely: “You said something funny. I’m laughing with you, not at you.”
Abe, sobbing: “I . . . WASN’T . . . LAUGHING!”
There are things I wish I knew before having kids, including how to play the harmonica. Mostly, I wish I had listened to that woman hiking. Really listened. Because it still comes as a shock how quickly they change, how fast they go and how tough it can be to keep up.
One day you’ll be helping them count their squares on the “Sorry” board, covertly messing with the stack of cards to let them win. The next day, they’re conspiring about how to knock off your green piece with their blues and reds, then high-fiving about your defeat.
“You’re outta here, lady,” Abe says.
“You’re toast,” adds Ike, my baby, the fruit of my loins.
I tell myself this is part of the game. I remind myself to be grateful that our boys are thriving, healthy and with minds of their own. And I try my hardest to let go.
Especially at school each morning where, no matter how much it aches, I remind myself not to reach out for Abe’s hand while we walk toward the building.
I’m proud to say that I have kept my promise, but I’m far happier to report that, at least on Monday, Abe reached up in full sight to hold my hand.
“I think I need it,” he said. “I’m still, you know, a kid.”
Susan Greene writes Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Reach her at 303-954-1989 or greene@denverpost.com.
