Homecoming the way it’s supposed to be

Boy Wonder came home for Community-wide Homecoming this past weekend.  I fed him.  I hugged him.  Rubbed his back today before he left.  Squished him.  “Why are you pressing your leg into my side while you do that?  You’re pulling on my spine.”

“Sorry,” I said.  “Why do you think I’m doing it?”  It was a rhetorical question but he answered anyway.

“So you make more physical contact.”  Smartie.

He showed me his chemistry lab report.   About a third of it sounds remotely familiar, but I’m certain if I ever wrote a chemistry report it was not in college and did not include so much math.  His intelligence clearly differs from mine.

“Well, you didn’t have to,” he said.  “For your major, why would you?”  Still, I’m awed by the things he knows and can do sometimes.  By his generosity not claiming superiority.

Friday, he went to Girlfriend’s mom’s house and then out with friends on two conditions:  that Girlfriend come to our house for Sunday dinner (I’ve missed her too!) AND that he come see me first.

“Aight.  Deal.”  His text verbatim.

I was blowing my hair when he snuck in the front door, crossing the dining room of a house he’s slept in less than six hours, bag-laden, heading up to his room.  He hadn’t even seen the way I’d set it up or where I put his stuff or hung his autographed cards, Joe Mauer poster, and life-size Adrian Peterson sticker we transferred from his old bedroom wall.

I thought I might cry.

I mean, I’ve missed him in particular.  I’ve missed parenting every day generally.  I’ve specifically felt the sting of having no one to cook for.  (Actually, that change in routine pleasures has maybe been more wrenching than the rest.  I was made to feed people.  I think I’ll post on that tomorrow!)

Not that I was counting the days, just trying to accept the changes, but I suddenly realized I’ve had a suspended question about whether he would ever come home again, silly as it seems.  I realized this past six weeks is the longest I’ve not seen him.

I dropped my hair dryer.  He dropped his bags more slowly.  But he dropped them.

He beefed up.  Working out everyday.  He’s sporting hair over his lip and chin.  Says he’s not used to being around people as smart if not smarter than he is.   The girls sang with every song on the five-hour ride home.  Can’t get enough good food on campus.

I tried not to stare at him while he talked.  I resisted petting him.  He doesn’t need me to fawn ALL over him.  I hugged him and kissed his jaw.  Hugged him some more.  And I let him go.  I was proud of myself.  See, I can do this.

Homecoming was Saturday, full of action, including photography.  And I talk too much.  To everyone.  The place was packed, full of people I haven’t seen for a long time and incredibly distracting for my mission of getting glorious photos.  Ten-thousand-true-word photos.But photos are no substitute for talking with real people so I’m always trying to do both.

Couple times I bolted down the sidelines after a shot I need.  I probably looked like a dork, my short legs motoring as fast as they will, homecoming beads flailing, camera and strap all kitty womping in my hands.

I used to be in track.  I still run.  Fairly slowly most of the time.  I might not want a picture of me doing that but I like the pictures it enabled me to get.After the game, about nine guys who played football with Boy Wonder last year grouped around their head coach, who gave them some more of his wisdom on life.  It almost made me cry right there but I took photos of it instead and, when Coach was done talking,  of the guys together.

They sense everything has changed and can’t be certain what will remain.  But they aren’t trying to figure it out.  They’re just living.  It’s a beautiful way to do life.I told them I love them.  They love me too.  Group hug.  Luckily no one pushed or shoved; I would have been a smooshed bug in the center of that heap.

Sunday, after dinner and a visit with Grandpa and Paula, Their Guest, First Uncle, and, as promised, Girlfriend, Boy Wonder took his computer out to the front porch, plugged himself into Netflix and cozied up on the day bed where I’ve spent afternoons reading, researching publications, and (I must admit) napping a time or three since moving here six weeks ago.  It’s a farmhouse porch, bare windows on all four sides, screened to the outside if I’d put them back up.  The light is perfect.

“Why is this bed so comfortable?” he asked.  I joined him and watched some of the Best of Jimmy Fallon, moving pillows to fit.  Then I left him where he napped until 6:30.

I woke him to go see Grandma; we stayed visiting until after ten. She asked questions; I strained to hear answers from the other room where I was cutting First Uncle’s hair a little too short for this time of year.  “Talk louder, Garret.”

He didn’t.

This morning I asked my questions over french toast for breakfast.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

Yeah.

“Does it seem like it went fast?”

Really fast.

“Stressed at all? About getting visits in?  About going back?” I asked.

I gotta get Chemistry done, but no.

“Does it feel like home?”

“Yeah,” he said.  “Course it does.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me, that’s all I needed to know.

I love to hear how he’s doing.  Love to feed him again.  Love to see him in the flesh, hear his breathing in the bedroom across from mine.  But knowing whether it still feels like home is the only real question I needed answered this weekend.

It answers a whole lot of other ones too.

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