Whiskers in the sink

I woke up this morning to a strange sight. There were clumps of hair scattered on my bathroom counter. I shook my head, promising to come back to clean it up, then walked into the kids’ bathroom and saw a skimpier version of the same thing. And then I just smiled.

It’s deer season, and growing facial hair is a rite of passage. My husband, whom I’m used to seeing with a goatee, but now also my son (who has just enough on his upper lip to aggravate his mama!) had both shaved, a sign that they had gotten a deer. It’s a manly rite of passage from boy to man — first blood. But if you think about it, women are no different, except our first blood doesn’t come with ammunition (although hormonally, sometimes it feels that way!).

Seeing those simple whiskers in the sink struck me about the different ways our children grow and change, most of the time so subtly that we miss seeing it. It’s more than just buying new jeans and shoes, which they grow out of incessantly! And it’s more than fighting over how old one has to be before they can paint their nails or wear makeup. It’s really amazing to stop every once in a while to look around and see how, even within yourself, you’ve reached another rite of passage.

With our parents, my husband and I have gone from being the children to being the parents. It’s a weird place to be in, and I suddenly have more sympathy for my older friends who already are experiencing this. Nearly all of our grandparents have passed away. Our kids are thinking about colleges, and that brings back a different nostalgia. We’re on the precipice of being able to sit around the table listening to the kids rat each other out about that time one of them did something and not get in trouble for it. And Christmas has taken on a whole new meaning. I have to explain what certain stores, music and technology things are to my parents, or remind the kids to smile and say thank you when they get things two years too young for them. It’s sad in some ways to see the grandparents grabbing for understanding that their precious grandbaby of 4 doesn’t want cuddled in front of her boyfriend (and years later, she’ll look back and wish she’d never stopped cuddling that wonderful lady).

Each stage ends one part and starts another part, with all the happy and sad that goes with them — riding a horse for the first time by myself, going to my first college party, feeling my baby boy kicking inside me. How lucky we are to have these rites of passage.

No, I don’t think I’ll clean that sink just yet.