Julie Kemp Pick
When our boys were little, we created a growth chart on the basement wall. Each year we would measure them as they stood their straightest against the wall, and record it with an X. This was probably similar to the caveman's method, only less evolved. As I was reviewing their progress, I was overwhelmed with memories.
It seems like only yesterday while we were having dinner, our firstborn was examining the polka dots on his placemat. He started counting the rows, and making calculations in his head. Then my husband asked him to explain what he was doing, and my boy waxed on about the rules of multiplication. He was only 3 years old.
When my younger son was 4, he had his tonsils and adenoids removed. A few days later, his pre-school class signed a get well card and the teacher was kind enough to bring it over. When I asked him if he was happy that his class missed him and cared about him so much he replied, " They just did it cause the teacher made them." This felt like it was straight out of a Leave It To Beaver episode.
Throughout the years they've done things that range from exasperating to exhilarating. Like the time my older son ran into a tree while playing football in junior high, and waited lying on the ground writhing in pain until his nose stopped bleeding. Then he came home and acted like everything was fine until I noticed the blood on his sweatshirt in the laundry bin. He was more afraid of worrying me, than the actual pain itself.
My younger son has had his share of injuries, but always jumps right back into the game. Now they are head to head on the growth chart at 19 and 22. Soon they will be coming home for the summer; exactly where I want them to be.
A to Z Blogging Challenge