It was the beginning of World War III, the final showdown, the “last man standing” moment.
My son James looked at me with a dead stare as a Spongebob Squarepants cartoon provided the background music to our impending duel.
“I am not going to tell you again,” I threatened, knowing good and well that I would probably tell him again – and agin. “Put those pants on and let’s get moving.”
Dressing for school used to be such an easy, simple task. It didn’t matter if the shirt had a gigantic panda across the front. Who cares if the pants were hand-me-downs with a caterpillar patch across the back pockets?
It didn’t matter. Momma picked out the clothes, and the child put them on.
Well, now my eldest child has developed a personality and apparently his own opinion.
And that opinion was fully expressed during the early morning hours last Tuesday.
“I don’t want to wear those,” he said, slamming his barefoot into the carpet. “Let me pick something out.”
I immediately shoved myself in front of the closet door like one of those war protestors you see in the news, handcuffing themselves to doors.
It was about principle now.
Who had the strongest will? I refused to let my eight-year-old son reject my wardrobe selection.
“We don’t have time to have a fashion show,” I said, through tight lips. “Put that outfit on and let’s go. We have achievement tests today, and you have to be in a good mood. So, stop arguing with me.”
Spitting and slurring, James proceeded to put on the jeans that I had spread out across his bed. Reluctantly, he shoved his head through the yellow shirt I picked out.
“How can I do well on my achievement tests when I am wearing something I don’t want to,” he asked, slamming his feet into his tennis shoes.
“Get over it,” I responded as I filled up lunch boxes with fruit drinks and bologna sandwiches.
That is when it hit me. This is it. James is growing up. He doesn’t need me to do half the things I used to do for him. He has his own little opinions. Pretty soon, mine won’t matter so much to him.
And it bothered me.
The ride to school that morning was pretty quiet. Our daughter Elsie was busy humming in the back seat, unaware that the battle of the outfit even happened earlier that morning.
James was disgusted, I could tell. Looking out the window, he took a few heavy sighs and kept to himself.
“What is wrong with your outfit anyway,” I asked, breaking the silence.
“I like it,” Elsie said, with a smile.
Good old Elsie. She can always be counted on to keep things positive.
“It looks like a sun cause it’s yellow,” she said, pointing to his yellow shirt.
“Really,” James asked, piercing his eyes over at her. “A sun?”
He looked at me as if saying, “I look like a giant sun. Thanks Mom.”
Winding down Sunny Lane, as fate fould have it, we made our way to school.
“Do well on your tests,” I shouted as James made his way out of the truck.
I almost shouted “I love you,” but figured...maybe not. James was on a roll that morning. A bellowing mother in the drop-off line might have sent him over the edge.
By the time I picked him up from school later that afternoon, the yellow “I’m a sunshine shirt” didn’t even matter.
James was back to his regular self. He told me about his loose tooth. He said he nailed his achievement test. And he was ready for baseball practice.
“I think you are doing really well in baseball,” I began the conversation.
“You think so,” he asked, with a grin that highlighted his loose tooth.
And I couldn’t help but smile. My opinion still counted for something. And I intend to keep giving it for good measure.
