THE WINTER HAT
Amy
LeClaire
January,
2012
It’s below zero out. The
frigid temp is typical for New England Januarys. A blast of cold accosts me as
I open the deck door to let my dog out. I push it shut. Bullied by
the wind, it pushes me back. I step away and touch my cheek, bruised.
It’s that cold out.
I tighten the sash of my robe,
head to the refrigerator, and grab a carton of juice from the shelf. I’m
about to pour a glass, but Lincoln is already back, whimpering at the deck
door. In ten seconds flat, he has accomplished his morning duty.
Who can blame him?
It’s cold enough for my
middle-school son, Ben, to wear a hat to the bus stop. I smile inwardly
while he takes a seat across from me.
The navy Nautica fits snugly on his head. Months ago, I chose it for its soft and
simple appeal. Like Ben, the hat is
fashionably quiet
I crack, scramble, and cook eggs
with silent satisfaction. I’ve lost the coat battle (students under the
age of eighteen don’t wear them) but not this one. That our forefathers used
to walk six miles in the cold to school doesn’t matter; this morning, Ben wears
a hat to the bus stop.
I hand him a hot plate of eggs
and toast. We sail through a familiar
exchange of questions and short answers. Gym clothes packed? All
set for Math quiz? Permission slip signed? Lunch money?
Lincoln sits patiently by his
human brother’s feet. A subtle beggar, the
two-year old pedigree is consistent. We don’t bother training him to sit
‘at his spot’ anymore. His begging has become a part of our morning. We accept it.
Before long, Ben gets up to clear
his plate, and Lincoln snaps to attention.
You never know when an almost thirteen-year-old will miss. The dog is out of luck. Ben carefully sets
his plate down on the counter and plunges into the next part of his routine.
There are papers, binders, folders, and fat books to be stored away in the
enormous tank that is a middle-school backpack. He works quickly,
efficiently. School is his job and, come to think of it, he’s mastering
it far too well.
Where have the years gone?
I scoop a cup of dog food into
Lincoln's bowl and ponder the question. It seems as though I’ve blinked
and ten years have slipped away. The sticky-fingered toddler seated
before me has become a responsible, almost-thirteen-year-old who wears a winter
hat when it’s dangerously cold outside.
The lost decade is impossible.
As Mother, I’m guilty.
Bent over the sink, I scrub away
at last night’s chicken soup pan, using the abrasive side of the sponge to work
away at the residue of yesterday’s broth.
The accelerated version of Ben’s
growth is my fault. Of course it is. I
should have home-schooled him or raised him more thoughtfully, like the
Amish. What good is all of this knowledge? What good are these bossy A’s and arrogant deadlines?
Where does it all lead? When does a kid get to be a kid anymore?
“Eat
your oranges. It’s flu season,” I say,
my tone unreasonably bitter.
There’s something unordinary
about this morning. Maybe it’s the hat. Ben doesn’t resist my
advice. He doesn’t begin to know
everything today. Instead, he comes back to the breakfast table to eat an
orange wedge, wipes his fingers dry, and proceeds to haul his backpack to the
front door in preparation for the morning rush.
Hot water falls soothingly over
my cold January hands while a routine rumble rattles through the kitchen area. The bus.
I turn off the faucet.
“See you later, Mom.” His voice is too low.
I dry my hands on a dishtowel and
head for the front door. Lincoln happily
follows.
I love you. Have a great
day. I’m working later, but I’ll see you…
My
thoughts are swallowed up in the cold wake of Ben’s sudden leave. Lincoln peers
through the narrow glass panel of our front door, then
looks up at me.
“I know. That’s Ben’s bus,” I say.
The word bus is a part of his vocabulary. His tail rises. The two of us share a mutual thought: Who cares if Ben is almost thirteen? Today is different. Let’s watch him get on the bus.
I tug
at the window curtain in our dining room, and Lincoln noses his way into my
space. I was thinking the same thing!
There, the two of us, Mother and
Dog, watch our almost-thirteen-year old stomp across the hardened white
lawn. His winter footprints are deep and
round, like boxing gloves.
He merges into a group of hatless
teens then disappears on the other side of the vehicle. The familiar screech indicates that the bus
has shifted into Drive. Then, as it does
every morning, it roars away and takes Ben with it.
My gaze remains fixed on his
footprints. I close my eyes and say a prayer for my son, followed by one
for other parents who have not been so lucky. I know that I if I open my
eyes too quickly, he might be standing on the front lawn of a college campus,
his almost-adult hand lifted for a confident wave.
The thought burns. Will
he wear a hat if it's dangerously cold out?
Lincoln, also concerned, looks up
at me. What do we now?
The answer settles like a cold
draft in my bones.
Our time is now, isn’t it, Lincoln? Our time is the very moment we’ve found
ourselves in.
Back at the kitchen sink, I scour
away at yesterday’s pan, still unconvinced.
