Buckaroo Junction

Change. When does it happen? When does that moment arrive when you cross over from being little, to being just a little bit bigger?
I've been contemplating that question lately. I woke up one morning, and all of Isaac's and Graham's clothes had shrunk almost overnight. Didn't I just clean out their closets to make room for bigger sizes yesterday?
Then, there was a moment last week when Isaac was telling me something in his little animated way, and he seemed so much more like seven and so much less like six. When did that happen?
Today was a big day for my big boy. For the past several weeks he has been working, I mean really working toward his orange belt in taekwando. Things usually come easy for Isaac. He is smart, he figures things out fast. But this...this was not coming easy. He practiced and practiced what he needed to know for his test, but each time his master tested him, he fell short, and usually fell into my arms crying afterward. It was heart breaking for me to watch. I rationalized it away, as all good mothers do, and told myself it was the teacher's fault. He was expecting too much of my six year old baby. After all, he is a kindergartner for crying out loud! I wasn't sure Isaac would ever get that orange belt. I didn't want the disappointment if he didn't, and I wasn't sure if we should continue. I thought about it, and prayed about it. Each time I announced it was time for taekwando, I was met with Isaac's dread in going to the class, knowing he would probably fail again.
But then, one week he got his four multiple-step kicks down and performed them for his master with almost near perfection.
Then, a week later, he got his multiple-step punches out of the way.
After that, came the 20-step pattern he had to know from memory.
Finally, the day arrived for his final attempt at breaking a board. He had tried this several weeks in a row, and each week he ended up in tears on the car ride home.
This was the day, I could feel it.
He kicked. And kicked. And kicked. And kicked. And kicked. And his classmates cheered him on. And I prayed from the corner, knowing if he saw me he would erupt into tears again. He kicked. And kicked. He fell. He ran to me over in the corner, buried his head in my chest and told me he wanted to go home. He couldn't do it. Now, you have to know, I am NOT one of those "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" kind of mamas. My instinct is to wrap him in my arms and carry him away from the hurt. I wanted to, oh, how I wanted to. But something told me I had to be as strong as he needed to be. This was a turning point for him. I told him he had to go back and try again. I turned him out of my arms and pushed him toward the floor. It ripped my heart out to do this. But, he went. I saw a determination in him I don't think I have ever seen before. He was going to do it. He kicked. He fought back the tears. And he kicked. And finally, the sound I had been praying for happened...that "crack" of wood breaking. His class erupted into cheers. I jumped up and down and instantly burst into tears. He did it! I felt his victory as much as he did. He looked at me, and that look of "did you see me?" was from a boy who was definitely more seven than six.