Recently I had an opportunity to watch my son interact with a bunch of other fellas in a group setting.  I was able to sit along the side, unobserved, and just watch all of the boys and the group leaders work together.

It was funny, for sure, to sit quietly in a room exploding with boy and to watch the conversations and the awkward and the regular.

Of course, I had to write down words, which led to other words, which led to this poem of sorts.

 

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Oh, these boys.

The hair choices they are making.

The both wanting to fit in and the wanting to stand out; simultaneously.

The wanting to be heard and the wanting to disappear.

The wanting to have a leader and to BE a leader.

To follow the right man and to BE the right man.

It almost hurts my heart to see my own son’s youthful enthusiasm.

 

 

Those eyes of his, this Boy Man who shoots his BB rifle and still cuddles.  Who memorizes the herbs in his field guide and laughs at Calvin and Hobbes over his Honey Nut Cheerios.

I love him.

I love his clever mind.  The part of his boy-ness that still shares jokes with me and gets excited about marshmallows in his hot cocoa.  The parts of his brain that processes Big Ideas abut the periodic table and campfires.

He grins rapid fire and he wrestles with his younger brother and he tries to run from math and bedtime and showers but not from affection or fun.

This boy.

He’s fantastic.

 

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