Growing Up

The other night, Tommy and I went on our usual adventure to the library. Except it wasn't usual, because the winter had darkened the skies. And we were alone. We are rarely alone in the car, Tommy and I. Usually there's a Jimmy screaming and a snooking Lucy along.

Tommy was nervous about the darkness. "It's nighttime, Mom! The library will be locked." He was surprised when I grabbed his hand and we raced past the dried-up fountain into the warm light of an open library.

We read together, late at night. Tommy snuggled into my lap and chose a book about tigers and another about an umbrella. This second book was written unusually, in broken English, from the perspective of a Japanese immigrant. She wrote about her daughter's first umbrella, something she longed to use. Something she waited for and finally attained.

And then, in the end, the broken English revealed something that clutched at my heart: in using her umbrella the first time, this little girl had her first experience of walking up and down the streets without holding either her mom and dad's hand.

And then I realized that Tommy has already had that experience this fall, without me even consciously planning it.

Where does it go? How do kids make that leap from toddler to kid? He did it when I wasn't looking. He did it by taking screwdrivers to the underside of telephone cradles, to figure out how they worked. He did it by sneaking baking chocolates upstairs, not knowing his stealthy move wouldn't be tasty. He did it by running off to school each morning, unafraid, into Mrs. McDonald's room to learn about God and frogs and sharing.

He's a real boy now.