The little boy who became “hot” overnight.
So it begins.
Last night, my son was cornered by a group of girls at soccer practice asking for his phone number. And just last weekend, some of the soccer parents told me they overheard the boys talking about a girl from a neighboring school who called my son… HOT. And now, I have to admit, I’m having some issues—especially with that particular word.
First, let me clarify: “hot” is a word I use on other things. It’s the word I used in a flirty conversation with a friend about Chris Hemsworth from The Avengers. It’s the word I still whisper under my breath when I watch Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall or admire Ryan Gosling’s abs in Crazy, Stupid, Love. Even my own sweaty August soccer game experiences could technically qualify as “hot,” but that’s not what we’re talking about here.
Because when I look at my nearly 13-year-old son—the boy who once entered the world at 6 pounds, 8 ounces, a colicky little bundle who rarely slept—“hot” is not the word that comes to mind.
I’m now navigating this strange phase of parenting an almost-teenage boy, a stage where he’s clearly growing into someone breathtakingly mature, and yet, to me, he’s still that baby boy I know so well. The same boy who cried the first night I left his room after turning off the lights. The little boy who clung to a paci, his beloved “fafa,” until almost age four.
He’s that tan-skinned, brown-eyed boy who spent hours after preschool playing “garbage man” in the street. The boy who probably wore a Buzz Lightyear costume to dinner for weeks straight. The child who taught himself to read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom at five, who caught butterflies in the backyard, and squealed with delight whenever Caillou appeared on the TV.
He’s the one I’d find tucked away in a cardboard box covered in marker scribbles, surrounded by books and his blankie, hiding in our old living room. He’s the boy who stuttered sweetly well into kindergarten, spent Saturday afternoons building pillow forts, and still held my hand tightly in the grocery store parking lot—just like yesterday, though it feels like a lifetime ago.
He became a big brother at two, but refused to poop on the toilet for another year. He’s the child who believed in Santa until he was ten and probably still believes in the Easter Bunny (because, chocolate, duh). He’s the boy who lost his father far too soon, suddenly becoming the only boy in a house full of girls, yet somehow carrying himself with so much quiet strength and sweetness.
No matter how fast he grows, no matter how many people now notice the remarkable young man he’s becoming, to me, he will always be my little boy. The boy whose hand I once held, whose laughter filled our home, whose little quirks made every ordinary day extraordinary.
Not HOT. Just my boy.
