Yesterday my toddler, Matthew, joined the ranks of "guys". He crossed over that invisible line that separates babies dependent on mothers from little boys fully accepted into that unfathomable realm of maleness. He struggled out of my arms, his soft chubby baby flesh strengthened by the will to be part of this group and independent of his mother. Matthew needed to walk by himself across a field dotted with grass tuffs and ant mounds to join his father and older brother, at the launch site.
My husband builds model rockets for fun. He did it as a boy, and now his two sons offer a convenient excuse to resume the hobby. Jeff meticulously assembles each rocket, spending a little time each evening to glue or paint. He has tried many different models, some plastic, some cardboard, some snap-together, and others needing coats of glue with gentle sanding in between. Our sons watch with some interest as these marvelous space faring ships come into being. Small fingers itch to toss them into the air and fly them around the living room.
We have been on many launch expeditions. Matthew cowered and cried during his first rocket launch a year and a half ago. The sudden noise and flare frightened him and he clung to me for safety and comfort. After that, Matthew stayed well away from the rockets, strapped in his stroller or held in my arms. I gently talked to him and prepared him for the sudden blast off of the model; his older brother reaping all the thrill of pressing the firing button. As time went by, Matthew was able to get closer to the launch pad. Then earlier this summer, he actually pressed the firing button, his courage bolstered by my hand in his.
Yesterday Jeff asked the boys if it would be a good launch day. There was little wind, and no threatening thunderstorms. We waited for the end of the afternoon when the park was likely to be empty; all of us selfishly wanting the excitement and spectacle to ourselves. The anticipation was palpable as the rocket launch kit was loaded into the car. The long green ship with its parachute wrapped around the nose cone rested in my lap. The stroller stayed home in the garage.
As we traveled to the park where the launch was to take place, each boy was exploring his own dreams of space. Patrick, just entering junior high school, hums the theme from StarWars, and recites the classes and features of starships from Star Trek. Matthew, not quite two-and-a-half, strapped into this car seat like a shuttle pilot, repeatedly counts backward from five. After “one”, he chants "press the button" and makes one of those sounds only boys can make, of engines roaring with ignition and lift off.
The park was deserted. The rocket, launch box, and accompanying materials were unloaded. Matthew fought to be free of his car seat. As we slowly made our way across the lumpy ground, Matthew quivered with excitement. He squealed with joy all the while making blast-off noises. Patrick carrying the rocket loped out across the field, his long thin legs striding effortlessly. Jeff surveying the park like a settler picking out a homestead, guided his elder son to the ideal site. At that moment, Matthew's hand slipped out of mine, and he tottered toward his father and brother without so much as a glance backward to me. He was theirs.
The rocket blasted off with pomp and ceremony. The count down called out by
Matthew, safety instructions recited by Jeff, and Patrick gazing fondly down
at his newly subscribed brother. After the first blast off, the ants attacked
my sandaled feet and sent me hurrying back to the car, alone. From afar I watched
my family squatted around the rocket, making final preparations for a second
launch. I observed the silent indoctrination of the youngest and realized he
was in the best of company, with his father and brother, as one of the guys.