kiwords

Much as Tuesday has become Swimming Night, Thursday has become Rock Wall Climbing night. This one doesn’t include the whole family, but just Tre, me, and usually Max. Tonight Max opted out, and Tre and I headed off to the rec center to hit the rock climbing tower.

When we got there we found a bevy of youth group girls, who were busy giggling and driving the rock wall attendants insane. Rather than compete with them for rock time (although I COULD, complete with intimidating looks and vicious pushing when no one is looking), I sat out this climbing session and let Tre climb. I read a magazine between his turns.

When he would climb I would stop reading and peer up at him. He was fixated on one particular face of the climbing tower. It’s a tough climb, and most people who try it end up swinging helplessly away, dangling by their rope a humiliating two feet off the ground. I know whereof I speak. I have been that ineffectual climber. I, personally, have given up on that particular face. Tre, on the other hand, has managed all the easier climbs and is therefore drawn to this one.

He kept returning to it, scrambling up the first few feet with determination and energy. Then he reached the hard part, and his body tightened with concentration. His fingers scrabbled on the rock, searching for holds, and his feet scraped over the surface, looking for cracks to wedge themselves into.

From the ground I watched, my own feet moving involuntarily with the yearning for him to find what he was looking for. I tried to remember to relax, that my efforts wouldn’t help him, but I would find myself holding my breath, my knee shifting to the left with his, my shoulder lifting a bit as his arm stretched up.

Over and over again he tried, and every time he slipped and swung away. I exhaled and looked around, returning to the ground with him - in a way. I did my best to conceal my psychotic little involvement in his climb from the ground. He would not have appreciated it.

Tre has reached an age where he’s taking another step away from me. His attitude at times seems…almost adolescent, and I’m sometimes shocked. Praise from me, while still nice, is no longer that important to him. I’m not the first person he wants to tell news to. And he’s pretty sure I don’t know what I’m talking about sometimes.

It reminds me of when he turned two. One day he was throwing food from his high chair, and I told him to stop or I would take his lunch away. He fixed me with a glare and announced, “You will NOT.”

I was stunned. How could he speak to me like that? This was my buddy, my little guy! We were a team, and I was The Mama, She Who Made All Things Right.

But that was my first clue that we were not, in fact, buddies. Tre is my son, and he owns my heart in a way I can’t even explain to non-parents. But as my mom says, from the minute a baby is born, his face is turned away. His life is increasingly away from me, and that’s not only ok, it’s actually the goal here.

My job is to make sure he’s safe, then sit back and silently watch his efforts. I may sympathetically feel the strain as he works, but the job is his.

And by the way, he never did manage that face of the wall.

But he’ll be back next week.