Mister Jem

I saw them from across the room, and it took my breath away. No one else saw it, I’m sure. There was nothing special in the moment; just a man with a baby on his back, talking to another man in a sport coat at a church event. Except…

Except the man in the sport coat was his son.

Oh, I’ve seen this play out twice before. You’d think I’d be prepared. You’d think I would be ready for the physical playing field to level off, and for the younger to suddenly begin playing a very close game of catch up with the older.

But I’m not.

I don’t know why, but John Mark? He’s my Jemmy. He’s still my moppet with a head full of dark curls and cheeks marked with the deepest, most precious dimples. I’m still caught off guard that he has left behind riding in the back of the metal Tonka dump truck, let alone that he can carry 50 lb. bags of feed effortlessly from the farm store to the truck. Where did my brown eyed baby go?

Of course, he’s right here. Bigger, taller, stronger. Thoughtful, but still impulsive —as most 13 year-old boys are. Uncomfortable in his own skin. Often monosyllabic, but at other times so full of specific details your head will spin. A year ago, we had to have “the talk,” with Birdie. No, it’s not the one you’re thinking of. (Though we’ve had to have that one, too. How on earth did these kids get to be old enough for all of this?) This talk requires me to pull down my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, where I have marked a specific passage:

Jem was twelve. He was difficult to live with, inconsistent, moody. His appetite was appalling, and he told me so many times to stop pestering him I consulted Atticus: “Reckon he’s got a tapeworm?” Atticus said no, Jem was growing. I must be patient with him and disturb him as little as possible.

Birdie took it about as well as Scout. Me? I teared up when I read it because my Jem was becoming, as Calpurnia says, “Mister Jem,” and it shook me a bit harder than I anticipated. All these kids, I want to yell at the world, and homeschooling, and everything… and still, there’s never enough time!

Instead of pleading my case, I walked across the room.

“Hey, guys, picture!” I smiled. They instantly turned and assumed the required pose because yes, I take photos more than anyone has a right to do so.

We all moved on, pushing past the odd moment where Momma seemed a little misty but hey, it’s Christmas, and who knows what else is going on with her. Later that night, as Jem wolfed down his second dinner, I asked him what the best part of his day was. He grinned at me a little sheepishly, and I waited. The day had held so many big moments for him, from playing with the worship band during service to performing in the church’s Christmas presentation twice that afternoon. I wondered what he’d say had stood out.

“I decorated a cookie. I got the whole little cup of icing to fit on it and made a pattern with the little colored candy chips all the way around the edges. Then I ate it right there,” he told me conspiratorially, and my heart leapt just a little.

He’s still right here, my little Jemmy. He’s growing up and yes, soon he’ll be a man. But he’ll never stop being the toddler who wore his blue and brown striped “mix-ther” shirt until I’d sneak it away for washing. Just like his oldest brothers, he’ll retain some sense of being my boy. The next few years will be beautiful and awkward as we both learn to dance in new shoes as a young man and a mother who needs to give grace and space. I’m so, so blessed to be part of this process, even though it hurts. And it does hurt. But I wouldn’t change it if I could, because the fruit from this blossoming is so, so sweet.