The Winter Hat

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.