Grown *ss Man

Lately my son has been telling me, “Woman, I am a grown ass man, and I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do!” He even kicks in with a little bit of a drawl delivering it.

Him, as he walks into my room: “Mom, it’s time to play your favorite game.”

Me: “Which one is that?”

Him: “Help Dakota find socks that match all of this,” as he points to his outfit for the dance.

Of course I played.

 

I posted that snapshot of life with my son to my Facebook page a few days ago. It accompanied this picture:

d and s

That is my son. With his date to the WPA (Women Pay All) Dance. No matter the age, when they are kids they look grown up the minute they put on a sport coat. Or, in the case of her parents, I’m guessing it’s the high heels.

Lately he’s been telling me, “Woman, I am a grown ass man, and I don’t need you tellin’ me what to do!” He even kicks in with a little bit of a drawl delivering it.

This kid lays me out with his solid, quiet humor. So much bluffing about being grown up and blustering about being able to do it himself. I’ve been hearing this since he was three – what he doesn’t need from me and what he can do himself.

Until it comes down to socks.

Sloane

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Cousins & Hairdos

I do not envy my son the following things: youth, thick hair, brainpower, speed, agility. Or even his dry, quiet humor. I do, however, envy him his cousins.

I do not envy my son the following things: youth, thick hair, brainpower, speed, agility. Or even his dry, quiet humor.

I do, however, envy him his cousins. He has more than a full house of amazing people to live his life with. Two in Chicago, one three blocks from home, and three more in our town. My cousins were not the best. Maybe this was because we were too close in age, we lived too far apart, one of them stole from me, or we spent so little time together that we had little in common.

This past weekend, we traveled to Chicago to begin the process of looking at colleges and universities for our son, a junior in high school. The highlight of the weekend was not the campus tour, the great road trip, or the fantastic food. It was watching my son get his hair done by his cousin, Emily – an untrained but enthusiastic twelve year old.

hair beginning
The beginning. The basket is chock-full of doodads,

She of the “super-thick Asian hair” was stunned by how thick his was. Within minutes of greeting him for the first time this weekend, she said, “Tonight I want to do your hair.” Dakota, my son, was pretty much not in full favor, but he played along for the rest of the day, during the walk to dinner – where he was the vehicle – and all through the dinner at a local restaurant while my niece regaled him with the instruments, gels, cremes, clips and equipment she planned to put to use. He playfully hemmed and hawed and told her to pretty much forget it.

hair done
The end.

She didn’t. When we all got home from dinner, she raced to retrieve all her implements and, clamoring back down the stairs, proceeded to get Dakota to sit up straight in the chair so she could begin.

He gave up and gave in. Before it was all done, they were both laughing and shooting selfies.

hair selfie
The selfie.

I have spent a few days looking at these pictures and digesting the smiles and smirks. These guys love each other and have a trust between them I will never know.

I do not envy him much. Not his cool demeanor, his calm personality, or even his temperament. Those I pretty much adore.

Sloane

cousins totem
Cousin Totem Pole: She rode on his shoulders to dinner. I figure she was planning her attack on his hair from that vantage point.

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When I’m Done, I Share

My Dad really doesn’t like the sound of Garrison Keillor’s voice. I guess it’s pretty much like me being scared out of my wits by Christopher Walken’s voice. Heck, the whole Christopher Walken, really.

My Dad really doesn’t like the sound of Garrison Keillor’s voice. I guess it’s pretty much like me being scared out of my wits by Christopher Walken’s voice. Heck, the whole Christopher Walken, really. But I was headed somewhere….

This weekend I finished my National Geographic magazine. There is really only one way to read the magazine, and it goes like this:

1. Rip open the plastic bag it arrives in and think briefly about how much you miss the brown paper sleeve it used to come in.

2. Immediately find your son and give him the Geo Quiz on the mailing label. Watch his face as he nails answer after answer correctly.

3. Go through the magazine. Read the editor’s letter. Read the short articles in the front. Read all the captions on all the photos and maps.

4. Fold down the corners on the articles you plan to go back and read after perusing the entire magazine.

5. Go back and choose which articles to read in which order. It does not have to be in the order they appear in the magazine. Choose carefully the story you want to end with.

6. When finished, copy pages you want to keep for files and ideas.

7. Hand over the magazine to your son. Remind him of the really good articles that he should consider truly reading, knowing full well he only really participates or accomplishes steps two and three.

15-lake-calhoun-summer-evening-670
Lake Calhoun and “the cities” in the distance. Credit: National Geographic magazine.

The last article I read today was a piece Garrison Keillor wrote about his personal geography of his beloved Minneapolis-St. Paul. I enjoy listening to him on A Prairie Home Companion – a treat I love sharing with my son and husband – and I’ve read many of his books. His style of memoir is very enjoyable. And, during every show and every book, I think of one thing I want to tell my Dad about.

Today was no different. The last five sentences of his article were absolute magic. I immediately wanted to call my Dad and read them to him.

I believe my Dad likes hearing these stories and things from me. Maybe because he hears a voice he loves, not Mr. Keillor’s.

Sloane

p.s. I have been receiving National Geographic magazine since my grandmother gave me my first subscription when I had my first apartment. It was a Christmas present I received until the year she died. Purchasing it for myself has been a yearly reminder of how much I was loved. Still am, really.

 

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Copyright Casey Simmons and S. Sloane Simmons. People who steal other people's words & thoughts are asshats. Don't be an asshat.