21?! Not MY No. 1 Son!?
I don't want to start a whole "Runaway Bride" type of uproar, but I'd like to ask everyone to be on the lookout for my No. 1 son.
Yeah, I know, lots of people have seen or met a tall, good-looking young fellow who CLAIMS to be No. 1. Maybe you've heard him talk about his upcoming senior year in college. Maybe he's mentioned his occasional visits to my house to consume mass quantities of food. Maybe he's told how he gets mobbed with hugs by my 10, 8 and 4 year olds when he comes over — they totally believe that he's No. 1 son.
But I've got a message for that guy. I'm onto you. I've learned you're going to be 21 years old Saturday. Which means there's no way you can be my little boy. Or can you?
Can you be the college freshman who just yesterday showed off your biggest first semester project — an Afro the size of a tumbleweed?
Can you be the leggy high-schooler who just yesterday ran a leg on a state championship track relay team?
Can you be the new motorist who just yesterday was so jazzed about your newly minted license that you enthusiastically drove your dad to the grocery to buy diapers (for your baby brother, not for your dad!)?
Can you be the junior high-schooler who just yesterday helped your dad buy precisely the right computer with all the gigs and megs and RAMs and ROMs you needed to destroy various putrid Zergs and Orks in intergalactic battle?
Can you be the youngster who just yesterday saw a Chicago Bulls game, rapt with joy at watching Michael Jordan in person, even though the seats your dad got were practically in Milwaukee?
Can you be the lad who just yesterday finished wheedling, cajoling, pleading and pestering your little brother into trading his superstar sports cards to you for scrubs and benchwarmers?
Can you be the fourth-grader who just yesterday made his parents proud beyond words when your teacher praised your kindness and willingness to help others?
Can you be the bouncy kid who just yesterday staged a "concert" featuring your never-to-be-forgotten rendition of the theme song to the cartoon show "Denver the Last Dinosaur"?
Can you be the little boy who just yesterday lost his first front tooth on a camping trip, and that very evening, while lying in the tent, dropped a flashlight onto your mouth and knocked out the other one?
Can you be the kindergartner who just yesterday requested silence by asking your brother to "stay as quiet as a popsicle"?
Can you be the squirmy and pink and wiggly and warm and indescribably precious bundle who just yesterday was nestled in your father's arms, while he quietly stared, realizing that he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life?
Wow. I'm picturing all those boys — and picturing you — and I guess it IS true. You ARE all of the above. And on your way to becoming even more.
It never occurred to me that you'd grow up and turn 21. I guess I'll let you, on one condition: If you'll be a man who will forgive me for sometimes staring silently at you, thinking how proud I am of you (knowing that sometimes, the same silent stare means I'm thinking about a cold, juicy — and very quiet — popsicle).
And can you make one promise: That you'll understand when those who love you find their very breath stolen by a song in their hearts that goes like this:
"Where are you going
My little one,
Little one?
Where are you going
My baby, my own?
Turn around, and you're two,
Turn around, and you're four
Turn around and you're a young man,
Going out of the door."
Happy 21st son. I love you.
# # #
takefiveT5@yahoo.com
Yeah, I know, lots of people have seen or met a tall, good-looking young fellow who CLAIMS to be No. 1. Maybe you've heard him talk about his upcoming senior year in college. Maybe he's mentioned his occasional visits to my house to consume mass quantities of food. Maybe he's told how he gets mobbed with hugs by my 10, 8 and 4 year olds when he comes over — they totally believe that he's No. 1 son.
But I've got a message for that guy. I'm onto you. I've learned you're going to be 21 years old Saturday. Which means there's no way you can be my little boy. Or can you?
Can you be the college freshman who just yesterday showed off your biggest first semester project — an Afro the size of a tumbleweed?
Can you be the leggy high-schooler who just yesterday ran a leg on a state championship track relay team?
Can you be the new motorist who just yesterday was so jazzed about your newly minted license that you enthusiastically drove your dad to the grocery to buy diapers (for your baby brother, not for your dad!)?
Can you be the junior high-schooler who just yesterday helped your dad buy precisely the right computer with all the gigs and megs and RAMs and ROMs you needed to destroy various putrid Zergs and Orks in intergalactic battle?
Can you be the youngster who just yesterday saw a Chicago Bulls game, rapt with joy at watching Michael Jordan in person, even though the seats your dad got were practically in Milwaukee?
Can you be the lad who just yesterday finished wheedling, cajoling, pleading and pestering your little brother into trading his superstar sports cards to you for scrubs and benchwarmers?
Can you be the fourth-grader who just yesterday made his parents proud beyond words when your teacher praised your kindness and willingness to help others?
Can you be the bouncy kid who just yesterday staged a "concert" featuring your never-to-be-forgotten rendition of the theme song to the cartoon show "Denver the Last Dinosaur"?
Can you be the little boy who just yesterday lost his first front tooth on a camping trip, and that very evening, while lying in the tent, dropped a flashlight onto your mouth and knocked out the other one?
Can you be the kindergartner who just yesterday requested silence by asking your brother to "stay as quiet as a popsicle"?
Can you be the squirmy and pink and wiggly and warm and indescribably precious bundle who just yesterday was nestled in your father's arms, while he quietly stared, realizing that he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life?
Wow. I'm picturing all those boys — and picturing you — and I guess it IS true. You ARE all of the above. And on your way to becoming even more.
It never occurred to me that you'd grow up and turn 21. I guess I'll let you, on one condition: If you'll be a man who will forgive me for sometimes staring silently at you, thinking how proud I am of you (knowing that sometimes, the same silent stare means I'm thinking about a cold, juicy — and very quiet — popsicle).
And can you make one promise: That you'll understand when those who love you find their very breath stolen by a song in their hearts that goes like this:
"Where are you going
My little one,
Little one?
Where are you going
My baby, my own?
Turn around, and you're two,
Turn around, and you're four
Turn around and you're a young man,
Going out of the door."
Happy 21st son. I love you.
# # #
takefiveT5@yahoo.com
posted by Don Stuart at 6:39 PM
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