I find it funny how a mother views each of her children. Vernon, our oldest child, has been mature enough to handle most anything for as long as I can remember.
The middle two boys followed suit. To me, they seemed old enough to cross the street by themselves by the age of 14, and I can’t remember the last time I worried about someone abducting them as they played basketball on the driveway.
Although they didn’t seem that big to me until they grew past 6 feet tall, I have accepted the fact that they have become men. But the youngest? Well, that one always has been — and always will be — the baby.
Although I call the baby Little Charlie, he currently stands 5 inches taller than me. I’ll tell you this: Tying a brick on his head did me little to no good.
Despite the fact that he’s thin as a rail, he’s strong as a horse and gets a big kick out of picking me up and then setting me down somewhere else.
I reacted differently when the older boys drove off for the first time than I did with Charlie.
We didn’t exactly prop Vernon’s car seat up in front of the steering wheel and let him drive himself to kindergarten, but I’m surprised we didn’t think of it.
As I watched Huey and Lawrence back their old green (four on the floor) truck out of the garage and stall it before getting out of the driveway, I casually thought, “Ah, they’ll get the hang of it.”
I all but packed Charlie in bubble wrap the first time he embarked on a journey without a co-pilot.
I had him bend down so I could kiss his head, blessed him with holy water and then knotted my house coat into a rosary as he disappeared in the distance.
While we had Vernon babysitting for friends by the time he was 16, I’m scared to leave Charlie home alone for fear there will be a break-in, and still I warn him to look both ways before he crosses the street.
I don’t like it when he drives a nail with his father’s oversized hammer, and last week when Charlie drove Old Green to the dentist, I worried that the hygienist would think ill of me for sending the little guy in all by himself.
A part of me, albeit small, wanted time to pass quickly with the first three kids. Judge me if you must, but it’s hard to take a herd of overactive children to the super center, and Lord knows what they would have done to the cat if I had left them home alone.
When they were all just little tots, I longed for the days when I could again roost with the adults without having to enforce timeouts and discipline with a forced smile.
I wanted to be able to wear white, carry a small purse and wear cute shoes instead of sneakers as I had to always be ready to sprint across the yard.
We really pushed the older boys along. Vernon started helping his father with manly tasks at the ripe old age of 5. By 6, he could haul lumber, run a drill and drive a 16-penny nail home in two hits.
Goodness gracious, the years flew by, and those little boys became young men, packed their bags and flew the coop. That really makes a mother want to apply the proverbial brakes to the time clock that runs the youngest.
Just yesterday I stood outside our vehicle as Vernon filled my gas tank. As we talked, I kept a watchful eye on the door of the convenience store.
“What are you looking at?” Vernon asked.
“I’m watching the door and waiting for Charlie to come out.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to steal him.”
Just then our tall, lanky 16-year-old came out with a bag of chips tucked under his arm as he took a long draw on a jug of chocolate milk.
“Do you really think someone would steal that?” Vernon asked with sarcasm.
Vernon may not worry about the theft of that little guy, but Father Time seems to be stealing Little Charlie right before my very eyes.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].