I rewound my tapes with #2 yellow pencils, I pushed movie tapes into my VCR, I played with slinkies for hours, or try to beat my own record of bouncing and catching the ball of the wall (best score 243). I read countless books, including most of the second floor of my school library, where almost no one but serious readers where let in by the librarian. As if she was hoarding the best books for those that deserved it. They really were good books.
My husband’s childhood seems so different to him than it does to me. (Yes he did all the classic things of our early years. Slinkies, VHS, yoyo’s, and mix tapes.) To him it was adventurous. I saw it as wild and dangerous. Broken bones, gashes, cuts, stitches, and many dumb stunts that made me wonder. “Where the hell was your mother?!” He shrugs and smiles and keeps the telling the story in detail, delighted in remembering such a fun time.
I think on my son: no broken bones, no stitches, no scrapes. It makes me feel a like a good mother, until I think of my own child hood again. I had no broken bones, or stitches, or scrapes. I was in a bubble. Always home and not outside. Not at a friends house because I’d be unsupervised, instead friends always had to come over to my house. They didn’t like it. “Too many rules!”, they said. Encouraged in books, dissuaded at sports. Encouraged in drama, discouraged at martial arts. I realize all the things I enjoyed as a child, where things I had to do alone.
Now entering the time, we realize our little family until will probably stay the same. I can’t encourage an only child to be lonesome. I realize I need my husband crazy ‘boy’ ways. That encourages adventure and crazy things. I see broken bone, stitches, and scrapes in his (what really really hope is far) future. He’ll tell his girlfriend or wife about all the things he did growing up and she’ll ask “Where was your mother in all of this!?” Hopefully he’ll smile and keep telling the story, not knowing I was always looking from the window keeping an eye on him…just in case.