And, I really meant I wouldn’t.
I told him I was not going to blog about him…or about his…our…making of waffles.
I told him I was just taking pictures for the sake of taking pictures only. It was for the sake of recording a memory, because often my memory cheats me, steals from me, and it only seems to become more greedy as I age.
Besides, they weren’t even good pictures, because I was hurrying to snap them with my phone-camera, since he was/is so ANTI-picture-taking.
Yesterday morning, started out normal, with the exception that my oldest slept in. The Seniors did not have to take benchmark tests, so he stayed home.
Yes, the school took attendance, but I can’t feel too bad that he missed sitting in the auditorium all day watching Disney movies, so the school could receive their tax dollars…my tax dollars.
A morning that started out much like any other morning, ended different than usual. The morning’s punctuation mark was the making of waffles.
Sounds simple enough.
And, I meant it that I would not blog about him. He is private and my blogging is not, so I told him I wouldn’t post the silly pictures.
Unfortunately, I had a little time to think about our short 30 minute cooking class.
I changed my mind.
It’s my prerogative, no?
Now, initially, my blog post was going to be about the fact that I have failed as a mother, in that, my oldest punk-kid has no clue what to do in a kitchen.
He knows how and where to put dishes away, how to assemble a plateful of food, turn on and off the lights, and how to toast a Pop-Tart, but the actual mechanics of making a meal?
That’s how I wanted to begin my post. Making fun of both of us.
But, as I considered the moment of making waffles, the laughter, the oh-so-brief and meaningful interaction between the two of us, I had to stop.
And I had to say a prayer of thanksgiving to God.
I had to thank Him for the gift of a connection, a moment, an opportunity to genuinely laugh together, to get flour all over ourselves, to truly just be.
I thought about how proud he was of his waffles…about the joy the simple, little round of flour and milk, baking powder and eggs, covered in butter and syrup brought to his morning.
I thought about the fact that it is far less common for just the two of us to be together, alone, in the kitchen. Normally, if that is happening, we are performing kitchen chores, him unloading the dishwasher, me attempting to keep him on task, him looking for ice cream, me cooking dinner, etc. Talk of homework, baseball hitting, the mail, The Office, the weekend’s upcoming events, all being thrown about, both of us looking ahead and not at the NOW.
He is no longer my little boy.
He has stealthily morphed into a young man right before my eyes.
He will not be around my house for long periods of time come June. It will be sporadic. Brief.
That thought I push out of my mind.
If I don’t think about it, it won’t happen. Right?
He’s quiet, but possesses a wicked sense of humor that shows itself briefly and quickly. He’s tall. And he has muscles, defined muscles. He thinks a lot. Talks little. Loves music, but not necessarily what the masses love. He loves Jesus. And, he loves his mama.
And he loves him some waffles.
This young man, who, once he leaves home for college, probably won’t want to make waffles himself, but will ask his mama to make them instead.
Gladly, I will!
I will make as many as he can possibly stuff into that tall, thin body.
…but, I want to make a mental note to remember to ask him to help me.
Not because I can’t do it. But because I want more moments, like yesterday morning, where we shared something as simple as mixing milk, eggs and flour.
These precious moments are fleeting. And I have never been very good at stopping to smell the roses. I am more of the type to look for the roses, take a snapshot and move on to the next garden.
I don’t want to waste away, busy-away, distraction-away the moments I have left with him.
Because, soon enough, they will be even more fleeting and farther between.
Yesterday morning I said I would not blog about him.