A Season of Boys, for Griffin and Quinn

For years when my son, Quinn, was a boy, I drove with the raucous sounds of battling from the backseat. Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers, Transformers, action figures come-to-life in the hands of a little boy. For years my backseat was strewn with the casualties of battles won and lost, fought and refought during those 11 miles to school and back. And for years, under every sofa cushion, every end table and bed, there were homemade creatures carefully constructed of computer paper, folded sharply into killing points, and stapled excessively to withstand active combat. Such is the life with a little boy. Such is the life.

One day, after having failed to draw my students into Macbeth’s world, I grabbed a handful of Power Rangers from the backseat, smuggled them into the high school in my book bag, and reenacted the death of Banquo and his son for every class. I knew the sounds to make to enhance the performance; I’d been hearing them for years. And never mind that the Power Rangers were not dressed appropriately. They filled the bill quite nicely, and even today, students proclaim that this was one of the best days ever. At least it was one of the most weirdly unique. But such is the life of a mother of little boys who learns to use what speaks to other little boys (and girls).

Today, my little boy has a man-sized body, but his heart still beats boy. Last summer as I was cleaning his bedroom (because boys do NOT clean), I found a paper creature, points intact, under his bed. Had this survived the years between boyhood and college? Had he, perhaps, made this recently, secretly battling in the depths of his basement bedroom? Or had he stashed it there, unwilling to part with this vestige of boyhood, of kingdom-saving battles that were neither escapes from real life or foolish fantasies but life itself?

And today, as my grandson, Griffin, makes the 50 yard trek from his house to ours, he rarely comes empty-handed. A tractor, an action figure, an engine or four-wheeler, he comes bearing the treasures of boyhood. Sometimes we play with them, and other times it’s enough that they have made the trip and rest snuggly in his pockets. Just in case a boy needs his stuff.

These days, he yanks his coat off, dropping it where it falls, and says, Can we get the monsters out? The monsters are the action figures that have survived Quinn’s childhood and have been stowed in a Rubbermaid container in the closet, just waiting for the next little boy who will battle again. Dinosaur-like creatures, one surviving Ninja Turtle, three Power Ranger evil creatures, a kangaroo-looking ninja master of sorts, and random pieces of Transformers lie before us with shiny promise. What guy to choose? What battles to fight?

And when the battle noises begin, I feel strangely at home once more, comforted by the growls and gasps, the staccato strikes of weaponed arms on the floor–or furniture–and the melodramatic sighs of death and defeat. In those moments, I am transported to my son’s childhood, when his life spread gloriously before him–and after me.

But my boys are not all boasting and battling. Beneath their warrior exteriors lie hearts that often take my breath away. When Quinn was 7 or 8, we spotted a dead doe on the shoulder of the road as we pulled from our drive onto the highway. The battle noises stopped. And then he said, Someone should do something about that. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see that his hands were strangely folded in his lap, his eyes colored with concern. I think you should call the governor, Mom. This just isn’t right–that poor deer. It’s dead, and you should do something.

When I explained that the governor really couldn’t do anything about deer that had been accidentally killed on our highway, that the driver didn’t intend to hurt the deer, and that we would, undoubtedly, see more dead deer on our drives to and from school, his stoicism unnerved me. There were no more Power Ranger battles that day, and we rode in silence the remaining 10 miles. Pulling up to his school, he shouldered his backpack–along with his heavy heart–and made his way across the parking lot to join his classmates who had lined up by the school door. I watched him carry this weight and felt my own heart break for the death and loss he would continue to shoulder with age.

Last week, I bumped into my daughter, son-in-law, Gracyn, and Griffin in the grocery store. If you could bottle the gleeful reactions of my grandchildren upon seeing me, I would buy it. Lots of it. Gracyn immediately asked if she could ride home with me. This was dangerous business–taking one without the other. Her mother consented, and we made a quick, quiet get-away before Griffin could really take stock of what was happening. About 20 minutes after we had unloaded the groceries and were preparing to make homemade slime, my daughter called.

Griffin was beside himself. First he asked if Sissy would come back to life, convinced that her disappearance meant death. Later, as they buckled him into his carseat, his anguish mounted and he cried, My Gracyn is lost in there! We are leaving her! Having moved from death to loss, his grief was palpable. His Gracyn was gone. My daughter called, on speaker, so that Griffin could hear his sister’s voice. Not convinced, I said Bring him over when you get back, so he can see that she’s o.k. and hanging out with Grandma.

Ten minutes later, he burst into the front door, leaving it open while he kicked wildly at his boots to remove them. One arm freed from his coat, the other still constrained, he stomped up the steps, made his way to the kitchen and looked. There was his Gracyn, seated at the island in the throes of making homemade slime, her hands in blue goo and the surfaces around littered with empty glue bottles, a shaving cream can, a box of food coloring, and assorted measuring cups. See, I’m here, Buddy. I’m not lost, Gracyn reassured him as she plunged her fingers in and out of the slime. Worry drained from his 3-year face, and he turned his attention to other matters, like who got to squirt the next dose of shaving cream into the bowl.

As my boy prepares to leave and begin a new life in a new community as the teacher and coach he has trained to be, there are too many moments when I mourn the passing time, my toyless backseat, and the stapler-I-can-always find-now. Yesterday in my entry way, my son’s size 12 Nike tennis shoes sat beside my grandson’s toddler boots. Boy shoes. Wonderful boy shoes with all their mud and stink and scuffs. Oh, that there would always be boy shoes that litter my entry way!

In The Giving Tree, Shel Silverstein writes: . . .and she loved a little boy very very much—even more than she loved herself. How I love these boys, how their battling and balling, their boisterous days and poignant moments have blessed my life.

They will leave, these boys, having grown into fine men. And I will take heart in the knowledge that, as Neil Postman writes, they are living messages we send to a time we will not see. [The Disappearance of Childhood, 1982]

Indeed, Quinn and Griffin will take grand living messages into this world and a world I will never see. But I’m keeping some boyhood with me in a Rubbermaid container on the shelf in my closet. And from time to time, I may take it down, open it up, and listen to the battle sounds of boyhood, released from captivity, once again