If you regularly read my blog, you know that I’m not a Facebook person. (In fact, RoleReboot.org published one of my personal essays about that very phenomenon. Here’s the link, in case you missed it: http://www.rolereboot.org/life/details/2015-06-why-im-not-on-facebook/) Which means I’m not regularly posting photos of my son, accompanied with cute little captions or anecdotes.
And, most parents, I think, tend to second-guess themselves, wondering if they’re “doing it right.” And by “it,” I mean parenting. Recently, my son showed me that my husband and I are, in fact, doing it really right.
Allow me to boast:
- Last week, my son and I went on a date to the Page Museum, a place we’ve visited many times since Ryan was a baby. On this trip, though, Ryan bought himself a souvenir with his own money. And outside, as we marveled at the statues of mammoths seemingly trapped in tar, Ryan’s gaze fell on the “Banjo Man.” (That’s our name for the gentleman who regularly stands outside the Page Museum, singing and playing instruments for those passing by.) Ryan saw the open box and asked what it was for. I told him it was where people could give the Banjo Man money, as a way of saying “thank you” and showing that they enjoyed his music. And my son opened up his Elmo wallet, took out a dollar bill, and placed it in the Banjo Man’s box.
- At our weekly shopping trip to the supermarket, my son and I were about to buy apple juice. My son led the way, and called out the prices for different brands. He compared a few, and then correctly identified the one that was cheapest, and thus, the one we would buy.
- At that same trip to the supermarket, my son walked by a man who was intently looking at laundry detergent. My seven-year-old son said “excuse me” as he passed in front of the man. The man smiled at Ryan and at me.
And now, the best for last:
- The other night, my son and I were having dinner. We ate and talked about our day. It was a comfortable, relaxed dinner. And then my son turned to me and said, “I love you Mommy.” At that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.