Same Old Surprises

Of course my kids look like my wife and me. We made them, after all. That’s our genetic material at work there, and genes tend to work with what they’ve been given. Every single person to ever set foot into this world has carried features handed down to them by their ancestry. That old black and white family photo hanging in the hallway? That relic from the earliest days of photography with the image of those long passed ancestors that your mother can put names to after thinking about it for a minute or two? Isn’t it wild the way the kid sitting in the front row is the spitting image of the two year old now playing in the living room? No, it’s not, really. Such resemblances make all the sense in the world. And yet they still have a way of jolting us a bit when we realize their existence.

And siblings, my god! My eldest is often so meticulous in his endeavors, so reserved, so careful, while his baby brother is a ball of destructive energy, a blonde Tasmanian devil, a foot-and-a-half high testament to the joys of taking a risk because it’s there to be took. Isn’t that just nuts? Well, not exactly. They’ve got the same mom and dad, but they’re different people. Of course they act differently. In the history of the human race, there have been enough siblings for us to have observed how much they can and do differ. We should know this stuff by now.

In fact, none of this stuff should be a surprise. But to actually witness it all happening right in front of me in my own home, to watch the whole story playing itself out with my own offspring cast in the lead roles, it still has a way of eliciting bemusement. Yet another case where, for me anyway, whether or not something should be a surprise doesn’t really make much difference as to whether or not it is one.

I’ve noticed something new about my four, almost five year-old in the last few months. Nothing radical or anything. He is still the same mostly sweet little boy, the same inquisitive little moppet-head that likes to be called a Hamster and show off how fast he can run and freaks out if his brother messes with something he just finished building. It’s just something I catch sight of around his eyes every now and then. A barrier or a distance. It’s like he’s becoming more fully aware that he’s his own person. Or maybe, and I’m not sure how much sense this makes, he’s becoming more aware that he’s aware.

I feel like I’m getting psychobabbly. I don’t mean to be psychobabbly. Promise.

There are times when I open my mouth and say something to my son, ask him a question or make an observation, and he just looks at me. Sometimes there’s a smile to go along with it, but beyond that, he doesn’t give much of an answer. But behind those eyeballs, I can see it, the churn. Maybe he’s thinking about what I just said or maybe his thoughts are occupied elsewhere and I just happen to be there buzzing in his ear. But either way, in these moments, he’s choosing to keep his thoughts to himself. It’s like he’s mentally striking out on his own and seeing how it feels to keep his own counsel. He is diverging.

And then a few minutes later, he and his brother come find me and beg me to chase them all over the yard.

Things change except when they don’t. It’s all happened before and it will all happen again. None of this should be all that amazing or surprising. And yet...