Thursday, November 17, 2011

broccoli 2009 and sweatpants

The kid is 12 going on 32 and while I always have things that seem worthy of saying, writing, the time to do so wears thin.

So by the way of catching up, between now and then and in between we skidded clean through a victorious football season (undefeated, baby!) and now are on to the never-actually-ended but really in full-blast mode of basketball with a fair measure of homework (4.0 baby!), book reports, and science experiments, whereby creating the largest explosion becomes A-worthy, and then there's the catching and missing busses and such.

Yeah, here we are. He is still standing toes curled eerily around the edges of pre-teen angst: I am one moment embarrassing and the next the greatest thing since sliced bread. I know, this too shall pass and we will soon teeter to the full fledged embarrassing edge and as much as I like to think I am ready, is a mom ever ready for this day? I'm not.

I wrote 2009 on a check the other day and yet, it would appear we are staring 2012 straight down the throat. My child will foray straight into teenager-hood this 2012 which basically means as a parent, you turn in your poopy pant, snot nose blowin' duties for a car that gets great gas mileage and has a good hookup for your iPod because you're driving carpools for a living these days.

You've moving up. Out. Onward.

Ironically I have never been more lame, more reluctant to venture out into the world and swallow all its randomness and people whole, and yet, I have never been more alive and more full of love.

It's somehow now the nights I am in my cozy Simpson College baseball sweats by 6 p.m. I covet most; the time we spend all curled together on the couch, a snippet of conversation here, there, a little teasing amongst ourselves, or perhaps some trivia, recalling of geographic facts, or other baseline knowledge my kid finds it hilarious I can no longer recall.

Ever the culinary genius, the kid now even makes his own pop tarts, eggs, PB&J. Given that this and cereal accounts for 98% of his diet, he's pretty much got it going on in the kitchen these days. Never mind that I try as I may, each night to put something fresh, preferably local and hand made in front of him and require him to eat, at least try.

You do what you can. And as a happy aside, the other day he declared to no one in particular, his newfound love of broccoli (plain, with no salt or spices or butter or cheese or anything funny on it, JUST BROCCOLI, steamed): I shed a tear.