Last week, between a doctor’s appointment in one town and weight training in another, Younger and I stopped at a convenience store where he bought a sports drink. Back in the truck, he twisted unsuccessfully at the lid, shrugged, then shoved the drink into a cup holder.
I glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you want the drink before weights?”
He flashed a palm, grinning sheepishly. “The lid hurt my hand.”
“Want me to open it?”
He shook his head. “That would hurt my pride.”
Ahhh, well, he’s honest, I guess. Although at one time, not all that long ago I feel, I was allowed to open bottles. And straighten mussed hair at church and hold his hand as we crossed a parking lot and kiss him on the head in public.
On Sunday, he will be sixteen.
In the midst of senior year and then graduation and then college preparation for Elder, I just shelved the reality of my baby becoming a young man.
And all those compartmentalized boxes are now falling around me.
Those really hurt when they hit you upside the head.
I’m not ready.