I remember the first time I heard that song by Bob Dylan. I was a young teenager with no idea what it meant to have a son or be a mother or change diapers or lose sleep because of a little one; but I never forgot the song and twenty something (thirty?) years later, not only do I have four sons, but I find myself asking that very question about the first born, "where have you gone my blue-eyed son?"
You see, even though he's still my son, he's turning 16 today, waiting patiently to become a licensed driver, and counting the days, hours, and minutes until he gains the freedom and independence he thinks he's ready to tackle. He's heading into manhood and maturity, and moms don't have a big place there. Which leaves me asking, searching, "where did the years go? where did my little tow-headed, blue-eyed strolling buddy go? when did he ditch the Jeep Jogger and start eyeing the big car?"
How did he go from writing letters to Knowshon Moreno and Matthew Stafford on Saturday nights to texting and face-timing friends?
When were Dragon Tales and Arthur replaced by Madden 2016 and Call of Duty on the Xbox?
How did the little boy I used to walk hand in hand with to children's church start going on ski trips with the youth group without me????
When did our Saturday and Sunday rituals of cartoons, pancakes, and ball games become weekends at the lake with a friend, only to make it home Sunday night to shower and get ready for school the next morning?
When did my waist-high, coach pitch baseball player become a 6ft, 2in uniformed lefty throwing strikes and earning W's?
When did his tiny Nikes become spikes meant for the big leagues? When did his appetite rival his Dad's?
Where went the afternoons at the pool playing tips and having cannon ball contests? Now he's old enough to be the lifeguard.
What happened to the ball boy who trailed at his Daddy's feet on Friday nights? Now he's throwing touchdown passes and handing off pigskins with a smile and the words to his fast-footed receiver, "take off!"
Don't get me wrong. As much as I miss the days when home was his first priority, his world, his comfort zone, his unwavering resting place at night, I LOVE the man he's becoming.
The little boy who first made me a mom and taught me what it means to love unconditionally, selflessly, forgivingly still teaches me. He's teaching me patience, how to trust, how to let go, how to judge less, how to control my emotions, how to bite my tongue, how to let him learn through his own failures, how to be firm with consequences, how to love from afar.
The wise ones tell us that we as parents have done our job when our kids are ready to head out on new adventures, meet new people, challenge themselves, drive alone, consider a college not in driving distance, without us.
I know he's ready. I'm pretty sure I'm not.
But I have a few more years to prepare for what's next, and he has a few more lessons to learn and a few more to teach me, I know.
So until then, I'll fix his Salisbury Steak whenever I can; I'll watch him coach first base for Tate's 7u team; I'll take pictures at Homecoming and watch him laughing with his friends; I'll soak up as much as I can and store it away.
And at some point, I'll pat myself on the back and give Dad a pat on the back, too, for a job well done. And I'll remind us both that if we did it with this one we can do it with the other three.
Not that that will make it any easier. Growing up isn't easy, but it's even harder to watch.
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