Blink of an Eye by Shelly Hickman

Last summer I wrote a passage about my son, because we were going through a bit of a rough spell with him and I felt the need to vent my frustrations in writing. I thought about sharing the original piece, but didn’t want him to feel bad on the small chance he might come across it. Highly unlikely since he’s not an Internet junkie like his mother; he has a life after all, but you never know. Luckily, that rough patch was short-lived and I have my sweet boy back. However, I thought I would share some thoughts about him growing up.

At eight pounds, ten ounces, my son was a chunky monkey when he was born. He had a head like a big round melon, a trait he inherited from his father. In fact, in later years when he played baseball and took a couple of balls to the eye, my husband teased him, saying it was because they were drawn into the gravitational pull of his head.

He eventually grew to be a child who smiled often, his eyes expressing more joy than his grin, lighting up his entire face. One of my fondest memories of him was when he was a year old. It was at his sister’s End-of-Chemotherapy party. Wearing little plaid overalls, he was still quite pudgy. We were on the back patio, and Fine Young Cannibals’ “Good Thing” came on the radio. Barefoot, I crouched down to dance toward my boy, and that beautiful smile decorated his face from one side to the other as he toddled my way, his arms open.

I miss that little squirt, who later developed an obsession with swords, Power Rangers, and zords. I didn’t exactly know what a zord was, but it had something to do with Power Rangers and he wore them on his wrists. For several months, he carried some kind of sword hanging down the back of his shirt, always prepared for battle.

It still breaks my heart when I recall the day we had to tell him that his big sister died, and he wouldn’t see her anymore. He had never really known her healthy; she was diagnosed two months before he was born. Aside from a brief period, she underwent cancer treatments his entire life. He was nearly four when she died. When he was given the news, he went straight to his room, pulled his covers over his head, and cried.

I’m not sure if that is my memory, or one my husband relayed to me. Honestly, I don’t remember a lot from those days. But whether or not I saw it in real life, I can see it clearly in my mind. All I do know is it seemed after four years of looking after his sister, I turned around, and he was no longer a baby. He was a little boy.

He was never the same after that. Although he was still a happy, smiley, agreeable guy, he would cry at the drop of a hat. He never expressed his feelings. I think the loss of his sister, understandably, left him with a lot of uncertainty and fear. Still, he continued to be sensitive, funny, and kind. I forget how much he smiled as he grew, until I go back and look at the photos. In practically every one of them, he wears the cheesiest of grins.

Once again, I turn around. This time I no longer see a little boy, but a man.

Okay, maybe not emotionally, but physically, he’s a man. My boy, who had always been a tiny bit chubby until his early teens, now almost seventeen, is six feet tall with a trim waist and broad shoulders.

Who the hell is this person anyway? Surely I’m not old enough to be the mother of this manchild, who goes out to “The Man Cave” with his buddies, lifting weights and doing pull-ups, and then jokes about how buff he looks in his shirts. This person who’s a stranger to me because he’s mobile and out and about nearly every second of every day.

My tiny ninja, where for art thou? Is this the little boy I carried?

Sorry to get all Fiddler on the Roof on you, but when and how did this happen?

Just as God knew what He was doing when He made toddlers cute—so you wouldn’t lock them in a room and leave them there during their terrible twos—He also knew what He was doing when He made teenagers virtually absent from your life. It’s so when they leave the nest, it won’t come as such a shock.

Does that really work? I doubt it.

My son will be a senior next year and may, or may not, be staying here for college. Don’t really know yet, but I’m trying to brace myself for the departure. I do have to say that I’m immensely proud of the young man he has become.

I just never expected it to happen so fast.

*** Shelly Hickman is the author of Believe and Somewhere Between Black and White.  She is a native of Las Vegas, where she lives with her husband, two kids, and dog, Frankie.  Please visit Shelly’s website: http://sydquint.wix.com/shellyhickman