growing up

Our oldest son is growing up.

How do I know?

Two weeks ago, he organized his own life so that he could dedicate his afternoons to basketball tryouts. For two hours for 5 afternoons, he played hard. "Mom," he told me after one particularly long practice, "I really worked hard today. I want my coach to see that I'm going to work hard if I make the team." It's the first time I've heard Orilus express an explicit connection between effort and achievement. As I dropped him off back at the house on my way to my graduate course, I sat in the driveway, marvelling at how effortlessly he bounded our front porch steps and trying in vain to remember what the limitless potential of 14 felt like.

Yesterday, he woke himself up at 7 to start his homework, which he did for 3 hours, because he wanted to get assignments due on Wednesday done, too.

Today, he put away dishes without being asked. And picked up some board games. And did his laundry. And emptied the car or a few things.

He made the school basketball team, after those 5 try outs. Less than half the kids made it, and a handful of his friends dropped out without even finishing the week-long grueling sessions. He is so proud of himself. We watched his first scrimmage yesterday. How does he get lay-ups with such ease? How can he make a 3-pointer look so effortless? And why does he look so darn tall in his basketball uniform?

He's also talking about colleges now. Helped along by a book about the history of basketball, he's beginning to recognize the names of the top basketball colleges and universities, and inquire about them, and talk about what kind of grades he'll need to get into them. He wants to make NBA, you see. Mostly I'm just happy to hear him talk about college for the first time in his life, to hear him think beyond the moment and to set goals.

Tonight I had to iron his dress shirt and pants for him. You won't believe this, he told me yesterday, but I have to dress up on the days our team has a game. I have to wear a tie to school on Monday! He was complaining in that I'm-so-proud-of-myself way, and as we searched his closet tonight for the crumpled remnants of his 6th grade graduation outfit, I thought to cherish the way he wanted me to help him out and the way he chattered freely to me while we looked through his closet. Things won't always be this way.

This week, every time I have come through the door, he's dropped whatever he's doing and yelled out, "Mom! You're home!" He's being funny and melodramatic, of course, but I love it, and I get a hug out of the deal, and this, too, I cherish. Three months ago, he was in a no-hug stage, and he may go there again, I know.

Last week Oldies 103.3 was hosting their annual Wish-a-Thon, raising money for the Make-a-Wish foundation. We had a wish, after Orilus' transplant three and a half years ago, and the foundation paid for our family to have a week at Disney World. Listening to the Wish families tell their stories--some of them we know from our transplant days, some of them without the kids who didn't survive their fights with cancer or other diseases--I've spent more than a few minutes in the mini-van shedding tears. I'm grateful. Things won't always be this way. Like too many families, we know that health is a gift, and is often temporary, and elusive. Sort of like your teenage son offering you a hug. Sort of.

No matter. He's here. He's healthy. He's tearing up the basketball court. And his mother sits in the stands, clapping but willing herself not to stand up and cheer (I've been told I'm embarrassing, so I really am trying to tone it down).

Life won't always be this way.