Double Time

Eight years today he's breathed life on this planet -- beginning at 1:12 a.m. April Fool's Day 2000.

My first son. No more or less loved than my youngest son but presents to me a unique second-to-second series of revelations, because he and I are treading this path first together.

And after eight years, I've begun to see a pattern in how I lament each birthday that comes.

I've found myself indulging in a masochistic equation:

Age x 2 = a factor that increasingly scares me.

The equation takes into account a restrospective comparison on much time has actually passed, related to the sobering reality of how the fact that "they" said it would all go so fast was a cliche, but that cliches are recognizable because they are so true.

At first, it was easy.

Age 1: 1 x 1 = Yeah, whatever.

After all, when they're babies, I just look ahead to the time when they can wipe their own ass and cook their own cheese toast without waking me up in the morning.

Age 2: 2 x 2 = Cool.

Four? That sounds great. Maybe he'll be wiping his own ass and cooking his own cheese toast by then. And still, he's off the public school system grid, which means he's still a baby -- but without all the menial responsibility.

Age 3: 3 x 2 = Neat to think about.

Six? That doesn't sound too old. Sounds like it might be fun. I bet you can throw him a fastball. And I bet he still will give you a kiss and still call them "spoiled" peanuts. And that tooth-line will have a few gaps.

Age 4: 4 x 2 = Where we find ourselves today.



I bet he'll think a lava lamp is cool, and I bet he can appreciate and will remember forever his first Jack Johnson show in Atlanta. I bet his teacher will say during his cookie-cake party that she calls on him last when asking a math question because he always gets it right. And I bet he'll prove to be an all-star-caliber baseball player when he practices on his birthday and his coach tells him the only way to throw him out is to cheat. And I bet he'll still curl up with a stuffed animal that causes him to become severely distraught if it were left at a car wash.

Age 5: 5 x 2 = A decade. Hmmm. A decade. Have we talked about sex yet? I was 9. That was a little early, but not too bad. But maybe 10. We'll see. Whatever's natural.

(The 15-year-old down the street who plays baseball with him already told him that taking steriods causes your junk to shrink and that "you want that to be as big as possible." Not a bad lesson).

And I bet he's graduated to cooking a grill cheese sandwich over a stove.

Age 6: 6 x 2 = Middle school. And another stick of Right Guard to buy at the store. And hoping that the steady chipping away of my faults that I've tried to engage in have been enough and at a fast enough pace so that my glaring weaknesses are at best not obvious.

Age 7: 7 x 2 = "Yeah, high school's weird, son. And, no, you can't have that girl over at the house with you two all by yourself. I hate to do this to you, but I need to talk to you about that thing they call 'safe sex.' It sounds paradoxical, I know: telling you how to do something that I'm telling you that you just shouldn't do yet. I promise, your time will come. And when it does, realize that it's ideal to wait for marriage -- but good luck with that, man. Just have some self-respect. And I know Google is the name of a state now, but do you remember when we first realized it could be a verb, too?"

Age 8: 8 x 2 = "You might have a driver's license, but I told you when you were 8 that you had better start saving that piggy-bank money to buy your own car. Of course, that wouldn't have done you any good, because I stole all that money so that I could render your driver's license a distinction signifying nothing. Yes, I know you hate me, but you told me when you were 8 that you extra-promised you wouldn't."

Age 9: 9 x 2 = On to college. "Did you manage a baseball or math scholarship? Because that would really help us out a lot, kid."

Age 10: 10 x 2 = ... 20.

OK, no reason to go any further than where we're headed next.

Though watching him sleep, and thinking of his day today and who he's become in a short-yet-long eight years ... I'm hoping I'm correct in thinking that the worst problem I'll have is that I'll miss him.

I already do.