It might not be a clear description of the man who came to my shop this morning, but it’s close enough.
I’m not about to take chances—especially if this man was bold enough to engage my son in a conversation.
“You need to be more careful about talking to strangers, Jay,” I warn, worry edging my tone.
“He’s not a stranger. His name’s Gio, and he’s my friend,” Jackson insists.
“I’m glad you’re making friends, bud, but not everyone is a good person. Please keep it to kids at school and grown-ups you meet when I’m around from now on. Okay?”
Jackson gives another shrug, his expression bordering on baffled as he stabs his macaroni with his fork. “Okay,” he agrees.
I should feel relief at how willing he is to concede, but I know my son. He has a mind of his own, and my sense of foreboding only increases as I glance out the window once more.
But I’m met with the same quiet stillness as before, and I will my heartbeat to calm down so I can enjoy dinner with my son.
“You have anything else to tell me about your day?” I ask, forcing my voice back into a cheery space.
But I can tell my anxiety has dampened his enthusiasm over making a friend, and I immediately feel guilty when he rests the side of his head against his palm as he gives a simple “No” and eats his next bite.
“Well,Iwas looking at the sky on my way into work this morning, and I thought, ‘You know what? I wonder what the names are for all those different kinds of clouds up there…’ IfonlyI knew someone who could teach me such a thing,” I say with an exaggeratedly dreamy tone.
Jackson giggles, his mood picking right back up. “Mooom,” he says, dragging the word out in exasperation. “I can teach youthat. We just learned it in school. Remember?”
“Oh, that’s right,” I say, flashing him a grin, and my heart swells as he goes into an enthusiastic explanation of what the different types of clouds are and exactly how to identify them.
After dinner, Jackson clears the table while I pack up the leftovers.
Then he heads upstairs to get his homework while I clean the dishes.
He rarely needs my help on math equations, so when he gets stuck on two, I enjoy the process of sitting down with him while we work through the book’s explanation of what his teacher expects him to do.
It’s a nice reminder for me as well, and I wonder if math was quite so complicated back when I went to school.
If so, I don’t remember it.
“Is that the last of it?” I ask when Jackson tucks his page of finished math problems into his Spider-Man folder and slips that into his backpack.
“Yep,” he says proudly, zipping the matching webbed bag closed with an audible snick.
I don’t know where he got his academic drive, but I can always trust that my son is on top of his schoolwork.
I clap my hands together as I stand. “Well then, time to brush our teeth?” I suggest.
Jackson stands without argument, walking through the living room and depositing his backpack on the floor of the entry.
Our routine is simple enough, and pretty much the same every night, but I love it.
It’s full of the little moments in life that make me smile, and though it might just be the two of us, I couldn’t be happier.
As I watch my son climb up the stairs, I can’t help but note how big he’s getting.
He’s still my little boy—and always will be—but somewhere over the last year, he’s started to develop a maturity that I’m not quite sure I’m ready for—even if I have to be.
Shaking my head, I finish tidying the kitchen, then follow him upstairs. Jackson’s already scrubbing his teeth by the time I reach the bathroom, and I join him, flossing first while he times himself to ensure he brushes long enough.
“Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll be right there to tuck you in,” I assure him, tousling his thick head of curls as he passes by.
Thankfully, he hasn’t reached the stage where he’s too big for that anymore.
