Boys. The ones we raise. The ones we date. The ones we love. The one we marry.
A lifetime of boys.
And yet, many of us remember that very first boy. The one we met when we were small. His knees were scraped (behind brown corduroy trousers) and we wore pigtails (uneven and wispy). Perhaps we met at school, or church, the playground or a birthday party. Or maybe he was a neighbor – like my boy was.
He was the first boy I ever had a crush on…the first boy I said I was going to marry. It was also the first time I realized the difference… He was a boy. I was a girl. And this fascinated me.
We were living in Pennsylvania at the time. He was five years old and I was four – so I don’t remember too much. I remember his hair was dusty blonde and cut long, just above his eyes. His name was Brent. We played house (my pick) or Superman (his pick). We learned to take turns doing boy’ish or girl’ish things. We seemed to recognize the uniqueness of our friendship and the fact that we had something to learn from each other.
And now, as I watch my little four-year-old playing with her favorite (soon-to-be 5-year-old) boy – I am reminded of that time, those memories.
And, of course, I can’t help but laugh at the fact that even though we moved so (so!) many times growing up, Wynn and I both discovered our first real “boy” in Pennsylvania. There must be something about the Keystone State…
So thanks Brent – wherever you are. I still remember you.
And I’m sure Wynn will remember her little boy for years to come. He has certainly captured her attention for now…