Meeting teenage markers is a dose of reality — for others

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It wasn’t so long ago — three years, to be exact — that my first-born grandchild entered a world known as “teenager.”

For the longest while, he was the only male in the group, although the other bookend is now occupied by one of his species.

When that event occurred, he took great delight in asking his mother, my first-born, for about two months or so before the event, “Do you know you’re going to be the mother of a teenager soon?” I’m pretty sure she knew that, although she, her mother and I all think he still should only be about 6.

The reality, though, is the numbers don’t lie, and it’s now been 16 years since that night at Rex Hospital in Raleigh when he announced his arrival. I got my hands on him as soon as possible, partly so I could endow him whatever greatness I might possess, if any.

At least, that’s what my mama often said. She was big on whoever carried the baby from the hospital would find that the infant would grow up to be like that person in nature and personality. I didn’t get to do those honors, but I did hold the little guy as much and as often as I could.

Today that would be kinda hard, as in dang near impossible. He’s now a shade taller than me. His doctor said he’s a little more than 6 feet tall, which seems strange since I always thought that’s how tall I am, but he occupies more “up” than I do.

In his infancy, I watched him learn to sit up, to crawl, to walk and to run. It’s hard to remember those unsteady attempts at left-right stepping today as I watch him run up and down the basketball court, dribbling the ball and weaving in and out of traffic. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that ability is not a characteristic I gave him. My brief and feeble school basketball career consisted of being the last guy down the court, hence earning the nickname “Lightning” as a behind-the-back slap in the face.

I do hope, however, I have instilled some other traits in the young lad. Reading, for instance. He has quite a library already, and I’d like to think some of that got started as he sat on the couch with Shirley and me as we read, “Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?” a gazillion times.

And there were other things we shared — corny jokes, puns, meals at the Waffle House, episodes of the original “Twilight Zone” (the one with Rod Serling), an understanding and sense of right and wrong. I know I’m not in this business alone: there are his folks, his extended family, his church and teachers, good friends, his dog Peter ... and who knows who in the future.

But as meaningful as that day was when “teen” was added to his age, another has now appeared on the radar. He’s 16 and now doesn’t need his mother or me or any other adult to make it possible for him to slide behind the steering wheel of a set of wheels.

I have told his mother/my first-born that such a situation would improve her prayer life, just as her similar event and that of her little brother did for my Better Half and me back in the day.

I want to stay around as long as I can and spend more time with him (and those who followed him), provided he can work me into his growing busy schedule. And therein is the rub: as he gets older, he — and others — spreads his wings and flies farther and longer.

I love him dearly; I think he knows that, as much as a 16-year-old boy will admit or say it. I hope he remembers me when he’s a granddaddy.

And if you meet him on the road, please drive safely.

Bob Wachs is a native of Chatham County and retired long-time managing editor of the Chatham News/Chatham Record, having written a weekly column for more than 30 years. During most of his time with the newspapers, he was also a bi-vocational pastor and today serves Bear Creek Baptist Church for the second time as pastor.