The battle scar.

It seems like just yesterday when one of my kids would fall, the earth would stand still on its axis and the tears would flow. You would sit him down and practically need a microscope to actually find the wound.  Usually a Band-Aid would instantly dry tears and within minutes the irreparable harm would just be a thing of the past.  BooBoo’s are god’s way of making sure that mom is paying attention. It’s not like we can prevent the scrapes and falls, but we damn well better kiss them and make them better. It wasn’t until tonight that I realized that while my son is still in every way a child, his childhood is fleeting. For the past two months, Peter had done the run portion of our local triathlon series. After a week of nonstop riding his bicycle through Lake Placid, he begged to add the bike portion to his race. I raised my eyebrows and dear old dad looked at him mindfully giving him the go ahead. Since then, I have had a lump in my throat at the thought of sending my kid out with 250 thrill seeking adults on bicycles. Also to add to the fire is the fact that one portion of the bike course looked like a minefield of potholes. So off he goes on to the bike. I look at the 20 or so people around me and ask them to say Hail Mary. I think I look so desperate that they actually do. He conquers the first loop as I watch it through the camera. Like watching a scary movie, I hide behind the camera to help cover my eyes instead of using my hands. He makes the second loop look easy. As he comes into transition, he tries the flying leap dismount off the bike that he had perfected in the driveway with his dad. This time however, he doesn’t hit the landing. A sudden gasp comes from the crowd. In slow motion Ramboesque fashion, he leaps up, runs his bike into transition and starts his run like there’s no tomorrow.  While proud of his resilience, a small part of me wants him to run to me crying to make his boo boo better.  But this is what we wait for as parents. He needs no help, and I just sit and watch him spread his wings as he runs right by me. After the race, I watch my two guys drink a PBR and a root beer respectively and smile. There’s today’s miracle, I think to myself. Coming home in the quiet of my bathroom, I wash my 9 year old’s battle scar. He cringes and when the Band-Aid is stuck on, I kiss the boo boo and tell him how proud I am.  It’s good to know that despite the fact that he is growing up, a kiss from mom can still do the job.