A Boy and His Dad

The change has been so gradual that I don't even know quite when it started. What I know, is that my Hank, my little boy, who used to look to me for all decisions to be made or any familial disputes to be arbitrated, now looks to his father. I am not saddened by this--at least no more so than I was when Elisabeth stopped breastfeeding or when Madeleine made her first solo trip around the block, which is to say I see this development as expected, a typical milestone for a seven-year-old boy on a course for eventual manhood.

Trips to the hardware store, once boring and something to be avoided, are coveted trips for my son to make alone with his father. Going to bed before Joe arrives home from work on days when he left before Hank arose is visibly upsetting to this little boy who desires, at the very least, a goodnight kiss from his dad. An opinion sought from me is now double-checked with Dad, a necessary exercise for a little boy, I suspect, who fears his mom will advise something too girly, too feminine.

Last evening, his sisters and friends from the neighborhood played and climbed trees in our backyard while Joe readied the grill.



It didn't take long for Hank abandon the kids and, instead, fully commit to his spot by the grill-- with his dad.