Wednesday, September 7, 2011

A story.

On Sunday B and I picked up my best friend Justin, his boyf William and their cute friend Cody and went to Fort Worth. On the way out to the car, he said, "Oh, mom, I forgot something, I'll be right back!" And while I started the car, he ran inside, slipped off the nice navy shorts I made him wear and ran back out to the car wearing the mesh soccer shorts he wanted to wear. Of course I didn't realize this until it was too late to turn around. Oh well, I thought, he should be allowed to wear what he wants... pick your battles, Brittan. We had a delicious vegan brunch with our friends at my favorite restaurant, Spiral Diner. All was well. B got his unlimited pancakes and I got my vegan blueberry pie. I could write a book about the merits of this pie...
But I digress...

After brunch we went to the Kimbell Art Museum for a little art history lesson. B enjoyed reading some of the notes and checking the dates to see how old each piece was, but was over it much quicker than he used to be. By this point I was irritated but, okay, maybe nine-year-olds don't have the same patience for art as six-year-olds and after going to the MoMA, maybe Fort Worth's options weren't as impressive as they used to be. Then, as if to prove to me once and for all that he's abandoned any effort of being charming and polite anymore, he farted loudly - more than once - in the quiet galleries, deeply offending a security guard.

It was time to leave.

We went outside and spent some time playing in the big sculpture outside while Justin drafted his Fantasy Football team on his phone. The sculpture is designed to amplify sound and is sturdy enough that you can run around inside, screaming, banging on its walls and creating a symphony of noise.
This entertained us for as long as it took Justin to draft his starting line, but eventually B grew tired of even this. All he was interested in was going back to Justin's house and finding the most violent video game he could get away with playing (that T rating is misleading, is it not, moms?) and gluing himself to it. I was discouraged. It seems the older he gets, the ruder, grosser, smellier and the less motivated. That's not to say he is any of those things in full but he just seems to be less interested in being at his best... ever.

Feeling like a failure as a mother (as I do, frequently), I took him home and went off for some alone time, just me and the sewing machine. He was in need of new pajama pants and I was in need of a task that required patience and allowed room for thought. His legs never stop growing. They're always sore and often so awkward that they can barely walk a straight line. They burst through the knees of his jeans and grow a full size every few months. His feet are bigger than mine and, I realized, his mind is racing to keep up with his ever-growing frame. I need to have more patience and give him more freedom, but how can I be sure that I'm still guiding him in the right direction and giving him everything he needs at this point in his life?

It wasn't until I finished the first pair of pajama pants, blue and white extra soft flannel, that I realized I hadn't heard a peep from him in a few hours. I called him in to try them on and he excitedly bounced into the room, instructed me to keep my eyes shut and lead me by the hand out of the room. He had something to show me. Standing in his bedroom doorway, I opened my eyes to see every inch of his walls, floor to ceiling, covered in little works of art done in marker, pencil, construction paper and watercolor. "I made an art gallery!!!"

And, just like that, my heart rose back up to its proper place and I decided that maybe we're doing alright after all.

2 comments:

  1. LOVEHIM.

    Seriously, I'm continually amazed at what you do as a mom. You and B are what Gilmore Girls would have been if Rory was a boy, I'm sure of it. Farts will always be funny to him, you just have to let that part go. Otherwise, he's aces. =)

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