The Shift

He asks for help cleaning his room.

He won’t call a friend on the phone, makes me arrange play-dates (and still calls them “play-dates”).

He needs to be reminded, daily, to brush his teeth and hair.

He refuses to attempt to make his own lunch, citing a lack of familiarity with the contents of our cupboards.

He`s still my little boy.

But this morning….

I was struggling with lid on a bottle of juice.

 

(Blueberry, to be specific.)

 

And without thinking, I handed him the bottle.

And without asking, he opened it.

 

I stopped, feeling more gravity than the moment, on the surface, seemed to merit.

 

I am as liberated and independent and blah blah as the next chick.  But I have  never had an issue asking the men in my life for help with a stuck-on lid.

 

The men in my life….

 

I can feel my little boy knocking on the door, on the cusp of joining their ranks.

 

 

 

 

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4 responses to “The Shift

  1. I can empathize. My six foot tall fourteen year old man child, all gangly limbs that seem to be loosely held together with rubber bands and paperclips, looks down on my own five feet ten inches and reaches the high shelves for me. Bittersweet, yes?

  2. Last night a trans man I know said, “Really, the only thing that’s changed since I changed genders was that people ask me to open jars more. Uh….?”

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