Golden Boy

He's human and far from perfect and I do so adore The Boy.

In his high school years, Wendy and I referred to him as Golden Boy. A combination of hard work and talent combined with a healthy dose of charm and plain old good luck earned him that nick. That and his blonde hair.

I am loathe to jinx him. Can I be too proud of him? I superstitiously worry about repercussions of my unadulterated adoration. Yet it's no secret, that adoration. Nor is it blind. When he screws up, which all of us are wont to do now and again, my adoration does not lessen. It actually grows as I see him take responsibility for his actions, make amends when possible, and rebound from the experience. It grows as I see him out in the world, making reasoned decisions, mature and thoughtful yet maintaining youthful exuberance, free to be silly when silly suits.

He never was one to complain or whine about chores although he would procrastinate and require reminders. As an adult he pitches right in, usually volunteering rather than waiting to be asked. Remember my adventures in lumberjacking? There was plenty left to split. Not so much anymore because The Boy put a big dent in the work to be done. Muscles are amazing.

I can't even complain that he left his stuff all over the house or made a mess in the kitchen while he was home over Thanksgiving. Because he didn't. He cleaned up after himself. See? You mothers of younger children who have not yet mastered such fine skills can stop worrying. They grow up, leaving us scratching our heads wondering, "Where did this person come from?"

Wherever he came from, I am blessed. The world is his oyster and he is the pearl in my own.


(And with that statement, my friends, I believe I have just become the reigning Queen of Sentimentality, the crown snatched right off my own mother's head. This week's sign the apocalypse is upon us? Be afraid, be very afraid.)

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