I couldn't help but be reminded of football games I went to when I was in high school. I remember dressing up and trying to look cool for the ladies. Anyone that knows me will tell you that it is an impossibility for me to look cool. Still, back in those days, I tried hard. Once I got to thinking about my high school experience, the gut-churning started. With very few exceptions, I really had a poor high school experience. I might even go so far as to say miserable, but a few folks I met kept me from that level of despair about the whole experience. Suffice it to say, I would not go back and repeat the experience for any amount of money.
Those memories got me to thinking about my son. He is the only child that my wife and I have. He is a freshman in high school now which means that in a just a few short years he will be off doing his own thing. That notion led me right back to the present, the start of my son's high school career. That also led me straight to anxiety for him because of my experiences. But I had to remind myself that this was his time, not mine. He has a large group of friends, mostly in the band, and he is happy and well-adjusted in school. He works hard, is liked by many, and is developing into a quite mature young man. That is all well and good, but I am still the Dad. I still worry. If I could, I would put him in a protective bubble that kept him from all harm. I would deflect the insults and injuries that get hurled throughout high school. I would be very content to wrap him in a cocoon and tuck him away until I feel it is safe to let him out. I fear that I would keep him in that cocoon forever.
I have been through the growing up part myself. I flew the nest and became an independent adult. I understand that part of the equation very well because I have lived that part of the equation. What I am starting to realize now is that the other side of the equation, watching him grow up and preparing to fly the nest, is just as hard as the growing up part is. Maybe the part I am going through now is harder. After all, I have the benefit of having been through all of the joys and heartaches that make up high school. I have the burden of my own experiences to filter everything through now. It doesn't really help when I remind myself that this is his time, his experiences, and they are different from mine. I still worry. I still feel the fear rise up deep within me at the thought of him being hurt in any way. Maybe my son and I are like the two cities. If that is the case, I hope that Mr. Dickens was right about the best of times and the worst of times. I had the worst of times, so hopefully my son can have the best of times. I know that is what every parent wishes for their children.