Growing up

At some point, some calendar long ago, the sun rose and exposed that I was no longer the sixteen-year old me. What caused me to know that the care-free, pleasure-soaked life of then would not follow me into the now. What happened? When does the sobering clarity of life slap us from the rolling-hilled forest of youth?

One evening this past week at the dinner table, my youngest son--now twenty-two--spoke of my life and my career as though I were the Bill Gates of my vocation. When I explained to him that in my career field I was a few miles south of latitudinal average, a shadow fell across his jovial face and he winced. After a few moments of awkward silence, we continued our meal and the conversation turned lighter. 

In that instant, I believe I saw my son grow up. 

Is that when it happens? Does the cold mountain of adulthood become clear when we see that our old man is just a man and perhaps not a very good one at that?

Oh, the illusions that we hold in our youth about our fathers. He can ride a bike without holding the handle bars! He knows how to win at every game. He can catch and hit a ball. He drives a car. He pins you and all your brothers at the same time!

We were little and didn't understand that every dad can do those things.

It's one thing to recognize that your dad is ordinary. It's another thing to expose that to your son yourself.