Every Friday night, my husband and I find ourselves in the bleachers of various high school football stadiums, hoping to cheer Elder and his teammates on to victory. Younger isn’t always an enthusiastic participant, preferring the quietness of home over the roar of a crowd. So, last week, I gave in to his pleas, allowing him to remain behind at home while I ventured into the noisy world of football.
“Okay,” I began my list of admonishments as I gathered all the necessary equipment for a mom at a son’s sporting event — in other words, my camera. “Don’t be eating anything. Or shooting anything with your gun. Or bow, either. Don’t answer the door. And don’t be doing anything that might start a fire.”
Younger, with his special crooked smile, walked over to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, making the fact that he is almost as tall as me now wa-aa-ay too obvious. Then he squeezed me, adding a few pats to my back.
And then he murmured, “Thanks for caring about me, Mom.”
Way beyond his years.