I am sitting in my grey Corrolla, thumbing through the texts while waiting at the soccer field. My man-son comes walking towards me with his bouncy step on his tip-toes. A trait he had as a young child, that identifies him to this day. In a crowd of people I can always spot him by that gait. This is his first year referee-ing soccer. His first “job.”
He is becoming a man.
His black referee jersey is not warm enough this cool April evening and as he gets into the car he rubs his hands and says it was so cold he couldn’t even sign his name on the form properly. His tall legs almost hit the dashboard and he cranks the heat as we bumble out of the parking lot to head home. It’s just me and him for the next 15 minutes. I’ve got a trunk full of groceries, a child at church youth group, another child at a different soccer practice and one other boy hopefully, cleaning up supper dishes. All the while with The husband at work on the evening shift.
I don’t remember conciously choosing this life. This life of driving kids around, managing practices, music lessons, grocery shopping, meal planning, and house cleaning. In fact, I don’t remember even reading the manual of how to raise kids in the twenty-first century! And when do you know if you are doing it correctly? Because being a mother is causing me a lot of angst sometimes. The uncertainty of it all. The balancing act.
We are doing our best to raise healthy, holy kids. Remember Wanda, the days are long, but the years are short.
As we drive toward the main strip of fast food chains, man-son looks at me with his ocean blue eyes, pauses his story about the book he’s reading and quickly asks, “Can we stop for hot-chocolate?”
I notice it instantly and gasp quietly. Giving thanks for my awareness. My son and I.
Of course we can.