Teenaged boys no longer appear to me to be gangly, pimply, smelly, testosterone-fuelled eating machines. Today they are angelic creatures imbued with the essence of all that is good in the universe, bravely picking their way through the danger filled maze of puberty.
Why?
My big boy is 13 now. I am the father of a teenager. I can still remember, clearly, talking about having babies with my bride 14 years ago. I remember thinking “Babies are all well and good, but who can love a 10 year old boy? How am I going to love a teenager!”
Now, of course, I know the answers are “Me” and “With all that I am”.
Woodie was talking about having babies the other night, and he said to us “I don’t believe that I will love a child of my own more than I already love my nieces and nephews, or my family and friends.” I let it go. It’s not something you can explain to the childless. It would be like trying to explain music to the profoundly deaf, or colour to someone blind from birth.
Parenthood is the hardest thing I have ever done. It is the most rewarding thing I have ever done and the thing of which I am most proud. Our two boys, just by being here, have made our world a better place, and us better people.
And now I can add teenaged boys to the list creatures that I love.
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