I know I promised a post about pooping today, but I'm sorry I'll have to disappoint all y'all who were eagerly awaiting my take on such matters. I'm just not feeling it today.
Actually, um....I feeling it a little too much, and therefore can't work up the necessary energy to riff on all matters scatalogic. I promise, tomorrow I expect to be much more in the mood to delve deeply in the bowels of my experience and opinion on poopular matters and crank out something redolent with wit and well-digested insight.
Until then, I leave you with this little nugget:
Thing 1 is growing up again. He does this in fits and starts, and every time I see that he's done it it shocks me.
Last night was his last band concert of the year, and for the occasion he had to dress up in a white shirt, tie, and black pants. I hadn't seen him before the concert, because his Dad has had them for the last week, so when he ambled out on stage with his buddies in the trombone section, I caught my breath. There he was, tall and blonde and just perfectly shaggy-haired in that tween kinda way that's popular now, and abosolutely gorgeous. I didn't recognize him for a second or two; the boy that I was expecting to see on stage had turned into a young man of poise and style.
I fell in love with him a little more right there and then.
As the band set to play, Thing 1 was all attention and eyes front, as it should be. He knew the notes, watched the conductor, didn't fidget, smiled broadly between the tunes, and kept his cool. His mama had a good straight line of vision to her boy, and didn't need to see anyone else for the time that they were on stage. Pride filled up my heart; pride for him for growing up so nicely, pride FOR him, not because of him.
After they finished, we other three in his family went to fetch him from the band room. He introduced us to all his friends and his teacher, and allowed me to hug him.
Then, it happened.
He was walking in front of us toward the school entrance, and then, seemingly inexplicably, ran a few steps up to a group of three people.
Those three people were a cute girl, her mother, and brother.
Oh yes, that young girl with the light brown curly hair, light brown eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, had an OBVIOUS attraction for my boy, and to him as well. She was smiling at him, he was smiling at her, they were talking about who knows what, and the SHE TOUCHED HIS ARM AND DIPPED HER HEAD TO ONE SIDE.
Holeeeee CROW! She was flirting with him! That little girl with the almost-boobs and the flippy little skirt was flirting with my baby!
Way to go, Thing 1! Way.To.Go.
Being a "cool" mom, I kept my reaction on the down-low, accepted his introduction to the girl and her mom and brother, exchanged a few words, then walked away politely. I didn't mention the girl to him, not wanting him to deny what was so apparently going on. It about killed me to have to do it, but I took a lesson from my own awkward past and held my tongue, allowing him to have the moment as it was without some embarassing follow-up from Mom.
Thing 1 and brother then left with Dad, and I happened to follow the girl and her mom toward their car (because mine was parked next to theirs), during which time I heard Things 1's name mentioned. Three times. With a smile from the girl, every time. I remember smiling like that when I was in 6th grade, the heady mix of boy-girl exploration just starting to brew, when almost anything was possible and nothing was known about hurt.
In the gray and gold stretch of sunset that accompanied me home, I reflected for a minute on how this "growing up" makes me feel, and you know what? I couldn't be happier. That child of mine is moving through life with a degree of apomb, with a sense of style, with only a modicum of self-consciousness, and with my whole heart behind him. My the first child has hit another milestone.
I need to find the baby book and write this one down.