Growing Pains

For the last few days, my son has been falling more easily, tripping over his knees and his feet. He’s usually a pretty balanced kid, the kind who does yoga poses like three-legged-dog on a whim, the kind who rides his scooter fast, gracefully lifting his leg between pavement strokes.

So when he starts to fall, I know that he’s growing. He no longer has control of his bones and muscles because they’re shifting. It’s a miraculous thing as a parent to be so connected to your child that you can feel and witness their literal growth with the effort to lift them into the car, to see them subtly but surely sprout after a long night’s sleep. What an unbelievable privilege it is to be present for each day of a child’s life.

But it’s curious how often children yearn to be older, grown up. Mr. B endeavored to do everything his parents did as he matured through toddlerhood, quick to move onto the sippy cup, the bed, to use the fork instead of spoon. Now, my daughter watches her brother and mimics the way he plays and eats, developing through her own best effort.

Meanwhile, we parents watch in astonishment. Don’t get me wrong—there are some things I like about my kids getting older. I am always ready and willing to eschew soupy baby food, high chairs, bottles. But this time, this moment in the cosmos, when my kids are three and one, I’d like to keep. I can already see Mr. B’s legs growing long and lean, the extra pudge around his wrists disappearing. His words get clearer, bigger. He “supposes” things; he separates sentences with “otherwise.” By the time he turns six, though, I doubt he’ll be attracting the admiring gazes of strangers who enjoy hearing his small voice. He’ll no longer open his arms to be picked up, his legs resting on my hips, his arms fierce and gentle around my neck.

Next he’ll be ten, pained by the offenses of other children.

In puberty, he’ll become more detached from me, his bedroom door closed, his goings-on secret.

I fear the last time I’ll get to hold him close is when we dance on his wedding day. I often wonder, can you physically hold your adult son tight, long, when his girlfriend or wife has taken over as the sole object of his affection, his confidence?

When these growth spurts appear, I line him up at his closet door and grab the pen from its place on his bookshelf. “Hold still…. Put your feet together…. Look straight.” In this, if nothing else, he cooperates whole-heartedly. I measure and write the date, then show him how much he’s grown. His face forms around a proud smile, soft cheeks bared. This is when he loves and trusts his body for its ease and accomplishment, its ability to impress him.

If only I could keep those dimpled hands and that tiny, sharp chin. If only his feet would stay well-padded instead of stretching into manhood.

His growing pains are mine.