FILE PHOTO: guitar. Photo by Jefferson Santos on Unsplash
I know this kid who just turned 15 years of age a couple months ago.
I have changed his diapers, fed him in a high chair and cuddled up with him and a book at bedtime. He has climbed up on my lap to nestle into my right arm, with his little brother on my left, to devour bag after bag of Sour Cream and Onion potato chips.
I have watched him toddle around the room, then walk, then wobble on a bicycle without training wheels and most recently, sprint on a flag football field. It was only last week, it seems, when he would run into the room after a nightly bath, throw his arms out wide and shout, “Ta Da!”
He used to follow my cues and smell my feet, just to make sure they don’t stink, but he has outgrown that…dangit.
I have noticed his voice change and deepen, his height increase by the marks on my wall despite having no shared DNA. His once single digit BMI frame is burgeoning to a lanky athletic build as he is always hungry.
He has been my golf cart driving buddy many times. Something we haven’t done as much in the last couple years as his teenage schedule and my aging body prevent.
I have teased him about how many girls he’s kissed so far or about starting to grow armpit hair (all I got for an answer was a grin and a blush).
I have cheered his courage pedaling a bike through the Moab desert race course. An amazing endeavor and love for a sport he inherited from his maternal Grandpa Dean and Uncle Nick. He has morphed from a “scaredy cat” into a “brave cat.”
I have watched his example of being a great big brother to two younger brothers and a special little sis. The patience of Job could be a quality on his resume. He endures with absolute equanimity, their teasing and tries to teach them the ins and out of a video game on their tablets.
He is our IT guru, fixing and explaining our cell phones, iPADS and apps to bring Grandma Cindy into the 21st century.
I have listened to his music talent develop, first on a trumpet, soon to be on a guitar. He and I share liked songs since we both have Spotify. I so enjoy exposing him to the classics of ZZ TOP and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I have fed him so much quinoa, orange chicken and steak that I could open “Grandpa’s Restaurant.” It’s not uncommon to text each other pictures of the food we are enjoying and Food Network is always our channel of choice when he is at my home.
He shares my birth month and sense of pranking humor, always willing to be my wingman when we get mischievous. This is evidenced by the continued existence on my living room ceiling of the spit wads he torpedoed there while relaxing on the couch one evening. When he is the victim, it’s always a good-sport reaction.
In the spirit of affection, I have tried to give him nicknames over the years but nothing seems to stick, like his little brother’s “Peanut.” We have tried “Triple B”, and “Sock Monkey” but with his newly-purchased electric guitar, the most current moniker is “Slow Hand” in honor of Eric Clapton.
This past Saturday, I watched him grow a foot, all in one day. In a wrestling singlet he battled, fought, sweated and experienced both victory and defeat. Never once, from him or his teammates and coaches, did I witness anything but good sportsmanship and a receptive attitude of self-improvement.
He might be young, but he is my hero!
Like any 15 year old, he is finding his identity. I am not worried, he’ll find it. He is surrounded with plenty of good influences from his family and friends. Very soon, he will pull into my driveway after a solo drive from his home in Bountiful, Utah. What a milestone that will be! If only I still had that red “Camaro Z28 with a 5.7 Liter V8 and Flowmaster exhaust” (a phrase I taught him to parrot when he was only 3 years old). I might let him drive it…maybe.
Another blink or two of my eye, and he will be graduating high school, off to the next chapter. I know just what I will say to him, as I hug him tight… “I love you Braxon, my first born grandson, JOB NOT FINISHED BUT WELL DONE SO FAR!!”