Warrior
At the tender age of fourteen or fifteen, too soon after entering that nebulous stew of adolescence that would carry him from childhood to manhood, my son Jeremy stood ready for battle. He woke me at around two a.m., weapon in hand, with the kind of strained whisper that always wakes a mother. My eyes and ears struggled to comprehend the scene. The words “I hear something downstairs” pierced the dark fuzzy sleep-womb I had been enjoying only seconds earlier, and I was instantly alert. The short hulking form standing over me was my son. He was wielding a samurai sword that we had gotten him a few birthdays ago.
Many thoughts came at once. Not generally inclined to panic, my brain leaped first, believe it or not, to something having to do with adorableness. The sword was part of a thrilling but tellingly inexpensive set we gave him as a nod to his achievements in the martial arts, junior style. Though the blade had never been sharpened, its edge barely even forming a V, and I suspected that any significant force on it would cause it to snap shamefully (it was, after all, a factory-made ornament for a growing market of proud suburban parents), my son didn’t know any of that. In his mind, we had trusted him with a deadly weapon, and he was armed from baby face down to as yet hairless legs. He was ready to protect us. He was ready to protect me. My heart swelled.
I have to confess, my second train of thought dwelt briefly on the absurdity of the tableau. I don’t think my son considered the potential for shock and fear I might have had waking up to someone holding a long sword a few feet from my face, and I found myself mentally slapping a head to my forehead. And my knowledge of the sword’s inherent qualities, or lack thereof, made it seem like a ridiculous choice for taking on a prowler. But this element of absurdity only enhanced his adorableness. It seemed that my mind had no interest in going to fear or protection, only wanting to stay on my brave, unseasoned son.
Still, I had to consider the possibility that the sounds he heard were more than the usual sounds our house made in the wee hours, such as the heat kicking on, or the filter back-washing. And the dead seriousness of my little man’s face necessitated that I display not a hint of the love and amusement I was experiencing. “Let me get my baseball bat,” I said, retrieving the wooden slugger I had kept from my twenties, a sort of affectionate souvenir of my own silly bravado, when I actually believed that it, along with a steak knife in my pocket, could protect me from attack on the night streets of Providence in the early 80’s. (Why I was foolish enough to be on the streets of downtown Providence at two in the morning is another story altogether). On some level, I must have felt that the bat was the appropriate companion to the sword.
My son and I stealthily walked along the upstairs hall, and down the stairs. Peering around every corner, we soundlessly investigated every room, opened closets on signal and even ventured into the basement after we felt confident that we had not missed a lurking horror which could close in behind us. Finally satisfied that we would not be murdered in our sleep (and disregarding the fact that our foray only made it all the more likely that we would meet a bad end), we returned to our respective rooms. Lying in my bed, I had a few more moments of reflection before I drifted back to sleep.
It was not lost on me that Jeremy came to my side of the bed. My husband lay right beside me and remained peacefully asleep throughout this entire incident. I knew this was testament to something unspoken but indisputable. My son understood on a gut level: Mom was the parent in charge. My husband was many wonderful things – brilliant, reliable, principled, committed, tenacious when inspired – but the last thing he was in our home was in charge. Too, there was always the possibility that my son knew my husband’s tendency toward cynicism (and perhaps even inertia) would have made him the poor choice to awaken for this particular occasion. But either way, my son came to me, and, in the dark of my room, I silently thanked him for this acknowledgment, which only made me love him more, and was more than enough payment for my briefly elevated heart rate. I also noted that when we embarked as a commando team, my son let me take the lead. Whether this was in deference to my badass abilities and leadership or, instead, a recognition of his own inexperience and diminutive bearing, I do not know, but, in any event, it greatly reassured me. My son, it seems, was not being foolish at all.
Just the other day, I reminded Jeremy of how he came into my room with his samurai sword so many years ago. I pointed out that the sword may not have been up to the task. Sensing the little bit of mirth in my tone and my affection for his callow boyishness, he retorted with arch assurance mixed with the gentlest of chiding. “Well, a prowler in the dark wouldn’t have known that, and I think I could have down some real damage with it. It was a long pointy thing, after all!” Even now, his bravado remains intact. For that, I am immensely proud and grateful. And with his now conspicuous size and the tempering of his steel, I have no doubt that these days he would be leading the commandos.
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I love this story! Wonderful and sweet.