Fifteen years goes by in the blink of an eye
Fifteen years ago yesterday my oldest son was born. Fifteen
years from now he will be 30.
Fifteen years ago I was a 25-year-old reporter in Hollister who
was in my second year of marriage, living in my first house, having
not experienced my first gray hair or injured knee.
Fifteen years goes by in the blink of an eye
Fifteen years ago yesterday my oldest son was born. Fifteen years from now he will be 30.
Fifteen years ago I was a 25-year-old reporter in Hollister who was in my second year of marriage, living in my first house, having not experienced my first gray hair or injured knee.
Fifteen years from then I am a 40-year-old reporter and teacher in Hollister in my 17th year of marriage, living in a different house, having experienced a few gray hairs and two injured knees.
Those are the statistics. But numbers don’t really tell the story of what it’s like to have a 15-year-old son.
My son was born a week or two later than expected, which wasn’t a surprise to those who know me (I’m a bit of a procrastinator by nature). Of course, I didn’t plan his late arrival and my wife sure was ready to get little Michael into the world after lugging him around for more than nine months.
His arrival was a joyous event in my family’s life: our first child; my parents’ first grandchild. My wife and I had been journaling about the pregnancy and writing messages to Michael before he had even sensed the world outside of his mother’s womb. Upon his arrival, we videotaped and photographed and scrap-booked his every move and anniversary and milestone.
He was our entire world, changing us from a newly-married young couple trying to find their path in life to a couple of parents responsible for the well-being a new human life. It was a crazy, scary, wonderful responsibility.
The circumstances have changed as the years have passed, but the responsibility is still crazy, scary and wonderful.
Michael was a big boy from birth, weighing in at nearly 9 pounds. Today, he is taller than his mom and grandma and pretty near to eye-to-eye with his dad and grandpa. He is talking about how he is six months away from being able to get his driver’s permit and I am talking about how he better not even think of borrowing my truck until or unless he learns how to wash it.
The past 15 years flew by, as parents and grandparents always say they do. The journey from Methodist Preschool to Cerra Vista School to Sacred Heart School to San Benito High School took place in the blink of an eye. His journey through high school to college will no doubt fly by as well.
Michael and I used to watch “Barney” and “The Land Before Time” together, over and over and over again until I learned every word right along with him. Now, we watch “SportsCenter” and “The Office” and “The Tonight Show” together, laughing at the same jokes.
Every now and then I’ll look at him and shake my head, wondering how my chunky baby boy transformed into a strapping young man in what seems like an instant. My wife and I have loved being his parents, as he has made us proud time and time again with his academic and athletic successes. We have also gotten our fair share of grief from him, whether he skipped his chores or pestered his brother too much.
All in all, though, it’s been the best 15 years of our lives – particularly the past 13 when we’ve had two boys in the house. I can’t wait to see what the next 15 years will hold for my boy. College; a career; marriage; children of his own (he can procrastinate on that last one until the first three goals are complete.)
Whatever those years bring they will surely come and go too quickly. Until then, my wife and I will cherish the time we have with our boys under our wings and look back wistfully on the baby who took a longer than expected to join us and no doubt will be out on his own before we’re ready for it.
Adam Breen writes a blog at http://thebreenblog.blogspot.com. He teaches newspaper and journalism classes at San Benito High School and is a reporter for The Pinnacle. He is former editor of The Free Lance.
