You know how sometimes it seems like kids grow overnight? A few weeks ago, it hit me that my twelve year-old tweenager seemed to have matured overnight. We were talking before bedtime and suddenly he was asking me about my writing project.
A few days ago, he told me his idea for a romantic set-up for one of our (adult) friends.
He and his big brother are bonding over the entire seven seasons of The West Wing.
Sure, he’s melted down and he’s pitched fits and he’s dug heels in less than gracefully but entirely stubbornly if not obstinately. But these days, when I can move on from those frustrations—fortunately, they are neither lasting nor constant—I see that he’s showing his growing-up self here, there, and everywhere. He’s often polite (and sometimes shy). He is more routinely helpful than he used to be. And he’s settling in at his new school. This week I learned that he’s got a nickname there (Lulu, which is what we often call him at home). I also observed that the more “in” it he is with his peers there, the more marker he comes home wearing: a few words on the back of his hand or a fake handlebar mustache on his face.
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It’d be one thing if he were the only one acting like a magic crystal set bursting into color and sparkle in front of my very eyes.
Eldest brother has exhibited a few total teenage moments recently, in the form of meltdowns or monosyllabic communication that are just, just teenager-hood. He slept until after one this weekend. He walked with his friends at the big Hot Chocolate Walk, like, you know, a teenager.
Plus, he towers over me.
He’s also himself, reading Ulysses and working on, it would seem, every production at the high school, and eagerly eating, if not everything, plenty of things.
How about the eight year-old? He is carefully observing his brothers’ unpleasant behaviors and dissecting them. Last week, he pretty much railroaded his parents into calling a family meeting, mostly to get those brothers in line. He’d like everyone to pitch in more, tantrum less and shift their sleeping arrangements so he could have his very own room. He would like his eldest brother to get up without complaint on school mornings and his next brother not to dig heels in so deep.
After one set of meltdowns he’d witnessed, he requested that I follow up with the brothers, post-family meeting. Sure, I said and added you know one day you’ll be twelve or fifteen. He looked aghast. “I won’t be that bad, right?” he asked. I hope not. I told him that you might be more self-aware, having seen this all before.
He continues to blossom, reading, writing, making cards for his sixth-grade pen pal, and just diving into so many cool things. He’s like old-soul meets eight year-old meets artist. Toss in a penchant for devil sticks, for good measure.
Not to be outdone, the toddler is drawing a lot these days and pretending she’s going to the bank and calling her best friend’s mother on the phone. She’s saying these glittery little jewel things, like today at naptime: “I used to be a baby and now I’m a girl.” Hear “girl” as grr-rul.
That’s really it. She’s becoming a grr-rul.
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This is the point at which you’d imagine I might be a bit heartstrings-tugged and oh, no, they are growing up. Maybe, fifteen years and four kids in they’ve just worn me down, but honestly, I’m really bursting with pride about each and every one of them, even the maelstroms, even with so many moments complete. Given the fact that I love them so, I cannot imagine wanting to stop time if it meant stopping them.
That said when they were smaller (babies, as Saskia recalled of her own smaller self) they were the four cutest babies on the planet. No offense.
