So there I was, sitting here at my desk typing entries into the "Bulletin Board" section of this week's issue of the newspaper, when I came to the notice we received from Principal David
Duncan announcing Ravia School's enrollment schedule for students attending during the 2010-2011 academic year.

And it suddenly occurred to me that, for the first time in 14 years, Melissa and I would not have a child attending Ravia School.

Actually, "suddenly occurred" is something of a misnomer, given son William's turn as 2010 salutatorian just a couple of months ago. I suppose it would be more accurate to say that the finality of the situation finally hit home. The school and its staff have been as important a part of the lives of my wife and myself as they have for our sons; knowing that this chapter in the story of our lives had ended was a little sad, to be perfectly honest.

But end it has. William is about to join the ranks of high school students in just a few short weeks. His older brother Joshua, with one full year of college behind him, is still trying to draw a bead on just what he wants to do with the rest of his life. I have to admit, sometimes that bothers me a little bit; his mother and I both knew exactly what we wanted to be when we were his age, so I can't help thinking that he should have some idea by now, as well.

I guess what bothers me is the memory of those classmates of mine who not only didn't have a clue what they wanted to do with their lives, but pretty much didn't care. They frittered around and let whatever potential they had in their youth go to waste. I don't want to see that happen to my boys.

Of course, whenever I have shared such concerns with my wife or my parents or friends or event one of my son's instructors, their response has typically been that I probably worry too much. And they're right, because - unlike so many of those classmates I knew when I was his age - Joshua's problem isn't that he can't find something that interests him; it's that he is interested in so many different things - and is good at so many different things - that he hasn't quite decided just which path he should follow.

At his age that's really not such a bad problem to have to deal with, one of Joshua's former teachers at Ravia told me when we were talking about it not so very long ago. And she was right, of course. Even so, I can't help wishing he would finally make up his mind - if for no other reason than to give me something to tell some of those old classmates should I ever decide to attend one of my high school reunions one of these days.

My wife says I'm impatient for my sons to become adults and get out on their own. That's not necessarily true; I hate the fact that they're growing up, but there's not a lot I can do to stop it and I want them to be as ready as possible to face the world when the time comes.

Besides, they've got just enough of their father (and of MY father) in them that they'll probably never completely grow up, no matter how many birthdays come and go. I suspect there will always be a place in their lives and in their hearts for such things as Legos and favorite old cartoons and the occasional comic book or toy car purchase. As long as they don't allow such things to dominate their lives to the point of foolishness, I say there's nothing wrong with that; I've heard it said that there comes a time to put childish things behind you, but I prefer to think that keeping a small part of the spirit of childhood alive is necessary to keep us from becoming hateful old cynics whose only expressions of happiness stem from the misfortunes of others.

On the other hand, if Melissa had her way our boys would both stay little forever. There's a video tape we have of Josh when he was about 3 years old, before Will was born, playing in our front yard in the snow that winter; in one shot he and his mother are throwing snowballs at one another and he takes off running across the yard, calling out in that sing-song 3-year-old voice, "You can't get me!"

Every time Melissa sees that tape she gets all teary-eyed and laments the fact that her babies are all grown up. It must be a mother thing; from time to time I hear my mom say more or less the same thing, and here I am pushing 50!

Still, where my own sons are concerned I am sympathetic to the feeling. Much as it might embarrass Josh and Will to hear me say so, there are times when I do kind of miss the days of stuffed Pongo dogs and storybook records and tripping over Hot Wheels tracks and View-Master reels in the living room.

This past Tuesday I took Joshua to our local polling place so he could vote in his very first election. For some fathers it might not have been too big of a deal. I guess I'm not like most fathers; for me it was right up there with his first solo ride on a two-wheel bike or his first time shaving. Hey, a milestone is a milestone.

Time marches on. "Mama's babies" are babies no more. And that squeaking sound I'm hearing is almost certainly that of a new gray hair forcing its way up through my rapidly aging scalp...

(Copyright 2010, by John A. Small)