My son, Keegan, turned 9 the other day (born in 2011, it's 2020 now; ok, good, phew, I was right, it's 9). I can still look back and see a mental image of the little 4 year old rugrat version of him. He is much bigger now. His hair is longer now, too. Wilder. And the boy himself is wilder in some ways as well. More adventurous, and more anchored, all at the same time.
He's daddy's boy. Seems like he has been for most of his life. My wife and I occasionally play this game where we pretend to disagree about something, then ask for his opinion. He will back me up no matter how obviously wrong I might be. "Daddy's right, mommy. The sky is green and the grass is blue. Don't be mean to daddy!" If his mother and I start to wrestle around, he will 100% start prying her off of me. And he won't stop until I call him off. He's my little knight in shining armor. Or my little guard chihuahua, nipping at my pursuer's ankles. Yeah, that one might be the more apt description.
He still loves to cuddle. I hope he never grows out of that. He's my little cuddler. Though, he's built like an industrial boiler; throwing off enough heat to make me sweat. And sticky, to boot. That boy, often fresh off the trampoline, even in drizzly 40°F weather, will still want to cuddle, sticking to any bare skin of mine like the best duct tape. Gotta love the gross, sticky little bugger...
He's 9 and big for his age. Taller than just about all the kids in his class. Always has been. Despite being usually the youngest in his class. And this year, he's becoming quite solid. I still recall the days I'd rock him to sleep, tiny little drooling cherub curled up in my arms. Now, when he falls asleep on the couch, I grow nervous. Will this be the time I carry him to bed and give myself a hernia? Will tonight be the night I throw out my back? So I stand there, in front of the couch, head cocked to one side, doinv breathing excercises, building up the mental courage and physical strength to complete the task at hand; bringing this monster of a child to bed.
For one thing, he's solid. I may have mentioned that. It's worth repeating. This kid is all there.
It's a short walk from the couch to the bedroom, but there are obstacles to consider. First, is his bed cleared of the multitudes of stuffed animals, ranging from palm-sized Paw Patrol pup to full sized 6 foot monkey? (I'm not exaggerating.) Second, is the bedroom door already open? Third, is there anything on the side table that will get knocked off by his blanket or loose limbs? I swear to god, if I knock over another hours old cup of dinner milk on the way to his bed...
Then I've got to shuffle him down a narrow hallway, turned sideways, feeling my grip on him lessen with every step by agonizing step. Getting him to the bedroom and encountering a closed door at this point is a real treat (note the sarcasm). Trying to open that door with him still in my arms is not an easy task. I won't lie; I've dropped him on occasion. Not a hard, sudden thump to the floor kind of drop. It's more like a slow motion sliding down, usually head first (he's top heavy; have I mentioned how big this kid's head is?), until I've only got one leg and a teddy bear left in my grip. It's usually at this point that he wakes up and panics, demanding to know what I'm doing.
If we get past the side table, down the hallway, and through an open door, I might still encounter a bed intirely covered by layers of stuffed animal hell. There is a fair chance that there's a light saber or Lamborghini sitting in the mix as well, ready to poke or bruise. So, with this 100+ lb gangly lump of drool and snore sounds hanging precariously by a couple of fingernails, I am now trying to sweep a leg across his mattress, like a windshield wiper trying to clear a window of bugs, birds, and bears.
Now it's time for the final tumble. His mattress lies on the floor, so it's a bit of a drop. Not a free fall, exactly, but I've been panting, grunting, sweating, and swearing for the better part of 30 seconds (that's if it went well). There's not much left in me for a nice, gentle touch down. It's usually a miracle that I've gotten this far without dropping him. We often go down together in an ungraceful collapse that, so far, hasn't ended up with torn muscles, tendons, or ligaments. Fingers crossed!
The little caveman is finally in bed. Whew! Now I can stretch, take a breather, and down some Ibuprofen. I don't know how much longer I can do this. One of these nights, we're going to go for a tumble in the hallway, and that's where I'm going to leave him. He'll find his way to bed at some point. And if not, I'll try not to trip over him as I stumble about in my morning haze getting ready for work.
Maybe in another year or so, I'll start having him carry me to bed!
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