My 15-year-old son Liam is three inches or so taller than me. His wit exceeds mine by a noticeable amount. His wordplay stops me in my tracks.
Liam started high school this year: a freshman at a new school last fall. Of all years. In a personal weepy moment one late summer afternoon, I was lying with Liam head to tail in the hammock. We were having a chat. I was lamenting over this year being so strange for him, in a new place, not knowing anyone. To my tears, he replied, “It’s one year! I’ll be fine. I’ll have three more years of high school after this.” His prediction about freshman year was pretty accurate. Whether in-person or remote, Liam speaks up in class, asks questions, and shares his wit in rooms full of what started out as strangers.
I had a leaky couple of days this week after a virtual coffee with the head of school. The head talked about how crappy it is that the seniors, including our older son Will, are missing those traditional senior events. The “lasts”—concerts, proms, class trips, etc.—happened without us realizing they were the last. Liam caught me teary-eyed in the dining room. “Oh, Mom… don’t cry. You know I’m alright—right, Mom?” Then he gave me one of those over the shoulder hugs I used to give my shrinking grandma.
Last week, when I filled the last page of my notebook-come-journal, I went to the supply cupboard to find a new one. Well, new to me. There are no true new ones, only those that the boys didn’t finish in a given school year. Those ones I tore the used pages out of and kept the blank, used notebooks. I happened onto a doozy of a drawing on the very first page that I hadn’t ripped out. I recognized the writing and knew it was Liam’s sketch. The humor in it gives me a little boost every time I open the journal, and I give thanks that we never had catsup packets around the house when Liam was in elementary school.
