Whiskers

My darling boy approached me the other day and told me he needed a shaving kit.

I instantly felt like he'd punched me in the stomach.

I peered closely at his face, willing the ever more distinctive brown fuzz above his lip to disappear.  I am not ready to be the mother of a son that shaves in quite the same vein as I am not ready to contemplate him behind the wheel of a vehicle.

I called his mobile the other day to inquire as to his whereabouts and a man answered, which startled me.  His voice was deep down in his boots.  It took a second for the world to stop spinning.

I remember my baby boy when he was brand new to the world.  I remember him as got his first teeth and took his first steps.  I remember getting the news of his hearing impairment and his wonder at the world when he could hear the birds chirp.  I remember his first day at kindy and his unbridled amazement the first time he walked through the doors of the Magic Kingdom at Disney.  I remember everything except when it was that he transitioned from a little boy to a man.

When children are babies and you haven't slept a full night in months, it's hard not to wish they were older.  When they graduate to toddlers and throw tantrums in the grocery store, it's natural to look to a time in the future when they won't demand so much of your patience.  When children morph into preadolescents and treat you like you like an ATM with a car, it's reasonable to count down the days until they can earn their own cash and chauffeur themselves.

Then, without warning, those days are upon you.  You catch sight of him eating his breakfast and notice that his hands are those of an adult.  Suddenly, he talks about politics, music and part time jobs instead of video games and tv shows.  Long gone are his dimpled wrists and chubby knees.  In their place is this tall, thin, young man in need of a shaving kit.

I'm still wrapping my head around that.