Back in April, I climbed Jacob's Ladder in Cameron Park with Jude and Sutton. (It was described HERE.) Today we made our second excursion up the steep staircase made of hard concrete.
In my car on the way to get some Sno Cones, I asked the boys what they wanted to do afterward. They have somehow all of a sudden taken to conferring information to each other through whispering in each other's ear, hands cupped to prevent my eavesdropping. I've never been sure at what age this comes into vogue, but I guess five is about right. After careful deliberation, Sutton announced that they wanted to "go climb Jacob's Yadder." Only he didn't say "Jacob's Yadder." He said "Jacob's Ladder," and it was a little sad.
It's obvious that we all want the children in our lives to grow up and mature into articulate, intelligent, and caring people. But when they take those big leaps, such as pronouncing those difficult "L's," and making it up Jacob's Ladder long before you do, without the need for you to follow behind with your hands prepared to catch them, you kind of feel you have lost something.
In many ways this is true of all the seasons of our lives, with or without children. Times change, people move on, the realization that you can never go back kicks in and you begin to have the sneaky suspicion that something has been lost, never to be retrieved. History remains inside you, but doesn't allow you to remain in it's company. These transitions are difficult. But we find ourselves on the other side a little weathered, a little beat up, but ready to see what's next.