Seventeen

Sam, at six months, rocking the Speedo

Sam, at six months, rocking the Speedo

“Seventeen” is a mid-70s love song by Janis Ian– horrible in the way all mid-70s love songs are — but with a message and a universality that has earned it a permanent home on my “Sappy Love Songs” playlist. Because seventeen is when we begin to understand ourselves and our place in this world.

I learned the truth at seventeen…

Today, seventeen is also the age of my firstborn.

Seventeen very short years ago, we met Samuel Joseph, the son who would carry on the Willis family name. I recall with striking clarity Chris whispering in my ear — awe and overwhelm and gratitude clouding his voice — as the doctors pulled our first baby from my belly, “It’s Sam. It’s Sam.” We were so young, so ill-equipped to be responsible for lives beyond our own. But Sam chose to make us parents anyway. As the first of four, we all cut our teeth on this family gig together. He made mistakes, we made mistakes, we all learned and grew and became better human beings.

We danced to James Taylor, Sam and I. “Something in the Way She Moves” and “Fire and Rain” were our favorites. I’d swing that chunky baby around in my arms, memorizing his perfect features, breathing in that sweet mixture of Johnson’s Baby Lotion, Desitin, and rice cereal. We took long walks at the Willis family farm, stopping to talk to the cows and gaze at the clouds.

We all grew up together.

When Sam was three, he still wasn’t completely potty-trained. Wise and eloquent with a vocabulary well beyond his years, he’d argue with us about why he shouldn’t have to sit on the potty. We tried rewards when he complied, and we eventually resorted to punishment — taking away a toy every time he willfully stood behind a chair and grunted, “Leave me alone!” When his room was stripped of all but the necessities — a bed, a pillow, his dresser — he looked at us and said, “You can take away all my toys, but you can never take my penis.”

His current job search has felt like potty-training all over again. He’s hemmed, he’s hawed, he’s procrastinated. He’s done just enough to make it look like he’s trying to find a job without actually finding a job. And so, we’ve had to resort to taking away his privileges. Chris just recently stood face-to-face with Sam (looking up slightly because Sam is just a little taller than his Dad), and said, “Son, I still can’t take away your penis. But I can take your car, and that’s just about the same thing.”

That boy. He is still the hardheaded toddler he was fourteen years ago. He is still sensitive and garrulous and whip-smart and lazy. My love for him is same-same, but different. I no longer breathe in the scent of his hair. It’s sweaty now, and his toenails are too long. He doesn’t dance with me in the kitchen anymore. His music is all thumps and bass. But in those rare moments when he lets me wrap my arms around his tall, thin middle, I am taken back. He towers above me as I hold him tightly and think, Stay. Stay.

The dinner table is quieter on the weekends now. Sam and Gus attend Friday night football games, and Chris and I sit down to a meal with just four instead of six. I am anxious and unsettled until they return home — right on the edge of curfew — safely, soundly.

I watch Sam as he sits at the kitchen table, calculator in hand, working his after-school AP Chem and AP Calc magic. Wasn’t it just yesterday we watched Richard Scarry videos together to master the alphabet? Weren’t we just singing the theme song to “Blue’s Clues?” Didn’t we just finish reading “Where the Red Fern Grows” together? We used to dress him in Notre Dame onesies. Now we have an official visit scheduled. There is a very special bottle of Blanton’s Bourbon in the liquor cabinet, a gift given to Sam on the day he was born. In four short years, he’ll open it to celebrate his 21st.

He is growing up, growing away.

And all is as it should be.

But when he says, “Can my friends come over tonight?” I reply, “Yes! Yes! Come here! Bring them here!” And as they play video games in the basement and raid the Halloween candy and laugh with their deep man-voices, I breathe it all in. The scent of teenage sweat and soft drinks, the sound of laughter and shouting, the blaze of hormones and restlessness.

The promise of young lives just beginning to unfold.

And I think, Stay. Just a little while longer. Stay.

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About Katrina Anne Willis

Author, friend, lover, dreamer, drinker of red wine.
This entry was posted in My Kids and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

19 Responses to Seventeen

  1. Just lovely. You are six years ahead of me – my son doesn’t tower over me yet, but his shoes are too big for me. So bittersweet. Thank you for sharing this. It’s just beautiful 🙂

  2. Bawling my eyes out. You, my dear, have a way with words that is unlike any other.

    Happy birthday, Sam. What a blessing to see you thru your mother’s amazing words.

  3. Mark says:

    Katrina, I really enjoyed this post. It reminded me so much of my daughter, who is close to the same age. It’s wonderful and sad to watch it happen.

  4. Gypsy says:

    Oh my. That part about those rare moments when you get to wrap your arms around him …. Well, it filled me with fear. I have an 8-year-old who still revels in hugs and tickles and kisses, but every day I wonder what it will be like when she’s a teenager. And reading your post, I felt it… hugs stop being the norm. I’m not ready. Stay.
    Beautifully written.

    • Thank you. And no need to fear… it’s all as it should be. Just a melancholy sweetness to the change, though. Hug as much as you can now. You may get a little reprieve in a few years, but I’m banking on the hugs returning when the teenage years are over. 🙂

  5. Angela Carr says:

    Every time I think of Sam, it’s the same story I remember. Tim was telling me about his elementary school “crew” and Sam being the brains of the operation. Chris Pappas was the muscle and Tim was the comic relief. When I asked Tim to explain how everyone got their job, he replied that Sam “knows all of the States.” Duh.

  6. Linda Vodney says:

    This makes me laugh and cry all at once. My boys are 15 and almost 20.

  7. ligurl27 says:

    I have this to look forward to, and so much more. This post has reminded me to fully embrace every single moment with my son – as they say, the days are long but the years are short. 🙂

  8. What a cute family you have.

  9. This is beautiful! I laughed at the antics of your 3 year old, and empathize with the issues today. I am a few years ahead of you in this trip, and have 3 not 4 kids. I wrote a pots Ode To The Middle Man that’s about my eldest son, that is along these lines. Reading through some of your posts (a letter to your 16 year old son was fantastic!), it’s clear that our writing and thoughts are similar. I think your recently read my Open Letter to My (almost) Adult Children? Similar to your Letter to a 16 year old… but a few steps ahead in the parenting game. Your words are eloquent; the thoughts witty and loving. This is just wonderful!

    • Thank you so much for your sweet words! I hadn’t read your letter to your (almost) adult children yet… but I just did! It was lovely — so thoughtful and wise. I totally related to the part about your children being charming to everyone but you. We struggle with that on the daily here. Although I’m thrilled that my kids know how to act politely and respectfully in public and with strangers, I wish a little more of that would transfer over to our home life. I’m so glad you stopped by and commented. Now I have a role model to look to as my kids start the next phase of their journey. 🙂

      • The next “phase” is a thrill a minute… she said sarcastically. Love, love, love my kids, but it’s a real challenge getting through the 12-25 years. Given that my oldest is almost 24, I’m cautiously optimistic that 25 is in fact the new 21. Something like that… I’m really enjoying reading some of your posts. Kindred spirits, methinks. 😉

  10. Carolyn says:

    I just found your blog from a friend reposting on Facebook. I’m sitting in Europe on the couch crying my eyes out as I identify with a host of emotions in this. We just moved as full time missionaries this summer and I’m so missing the precious hours I had with my kids homeschooling back in the States. Tonight we celebrated a semester done in their local school (where they have continually amazed me with their bravery for new language and all things out of the ordinary in this transition) and we came home to watch White Christmas and eat cereal in front of the TV. Somehow both my almost 9 and almost 6 year old fit onto the chair with me and wanted my arms around them. I thought the exact same thing-stay, stay right here for a little longer. I love each age they grow into as I see them grow and learn and turn into regular little individual people but there’s a bit of loss in that too. Anyway, I’ve been reading for a while now and look forward to continuing! I also love your transparency and love for Jesus and realness for realness sake and not just shock value.

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