I have friends who really struggled with turning 39. Being one year away from 40 and all. But I just turned 39 in January and it didn’t faze me in the least.
The fact that my oldest turned 9 five days later, well… that one hit me hard.
Nine? Really? How did that happen? I thought we put too many candles on the cake. It just didn’t look right. Or sound right. Nine means he’s halfway to 18.
He had his first sleepover at a friend’s house last weekend. I was worried because his little buddy lives in Island, so it’s not just around the corner if I had to go get him in the middle of the night. But he did fine. He’s growing up whether I’m ready for it or not. Which is the same “letting go” feeling as dropping him off at preschool the first time was, which seems like only yesterday.
Lately he’s been asking questions I wasn’t prepared to answer for a few more years. Which means we’re about to have some serious conversations because my little guy is much more perceptive and observant than his age suggests. Ultimately, I want him to learn the truth from me rather than exaggerations from his friends. Or even worse, online.
The other day he came in the house just beaming with pride because an older boy in the neighborhood taught him how to catch a football. I’ve offered to throw the football with him several times, but learning from an older kid meant the world to him. He also used the phrase “right in the dumplin’s” this morning, which I had never heard before. I laughed for a good five minutes.
My boys are 7 and 9 now, but if I’m being honest, there’s a part of me that wishes they could go back and stay 6 and 8 forever. I wish I could slow down time and let them have more of these innocent years. I’m afraid it’s about to get real. My oldest is about to experience peer pressure and some ugly realities of the culture we live in. I can already sense it starting.
So for the next few months, I’m going to do the best I can to slow down time. As hectic as mornings can get, and as crazy as evening routines can be with supper and homework and piano and, if we’re lucky, a little bit of free time before bedtime, I’m going to do my best to be intentional about taking a few minutes every day to check in with him.
Maybe I’ll at least make an honest attempt to figure out how a square pig in Minecraft can be so captivating or just what is so interesting about watching a video of another kid playing a video game.
Or maybe I’ll put his new football catching skills to the test.
Because third grade will soon be sixth grade before I know it and then high school, the way everybody has warned me it would happen since the day he was born. They’re right. These first nine years have flown by too fast.
I don’t mean to sound fearful. Aware of what is to come is a better way to put it. To play off this football analogy, if nine is a “halftime” moment, then it’s time to make some adjustments for the second half. I need to step my game up a little bit to make sure he’s ready for some offenses and defenses he’s never seen before.
I want him to be prepared and ready for the pressure situations so he doesn’t lose his head when he’s scrambling in the pocket with life coming at him from every direction.
I want the truth to be a solid handoff from me to him, not some Hail Mary pass from the neighborhood kids.
And I do take some comfort in knowing I’ve got some good men on the “sidelines” with me to help call the right plays and keep an eye on him. I’ve been very intentional about surrounding myself with other men who are great role models for my boys. That way it’s not just my example they are seeing and my voice they are hearing all the time.
I had that growing up, and I believe it made all the difference in my life.
But for now, I gotta get to work on my halftime speech.