Who knew that a single letter could hold so much meaning? I am referring to the letter “W,” which stands for Waterman. Without it, there’s a hole that keeps us from being whole. Without it, there’s no swing when we sing, and it don’t mean a thing when you ain’t got that swing!
When added, ear becomes wear, and I must frequently admonish my British spouse, “For the love of God, wear your hearing aids so you can ’ear what I am saying!”
The lowly W has, slowly over time, meant so much more because I must finally delete it from my lexicon of endearments. When I began writing this column, my grandson was a small boy who rode in the grocery cart while I shopped and needed a booster seat in restaurants. He was my Mini-Brit, but, like all children except for Peter Pan, he grew up.
At age 10, on the verge of becoming a teenager, he became my Britween. That singular letter “W” came to represent the final vestiges of his childhood. However, just a few days ago he had his 13th birthday and now it’s time. The “W” must go. Alas, my little boy is now a Briteen.
The morning of his birthday, he brightly said, “Now you are raising a teenager!”
“No,” I reminded him. “I am raising a man.”
“OK, fine,” he replied. “But you are now living with a teenager!”
God help us all, he’s right. He already does what teenaged boys do best: eat, sleep, and brood.
This is the same child who had to be made to take a bath and wash his hair. The same boy who wore the same underwear until it would finally run screaming from under his bed into the laundry room. No, wait, that was me after finding his underwear under the bed. This youngster has steadfastly refused to wear long pants, favoring a wardrobe of shorts and T-shirts.
Now, he spends hours showering, spritzing scent on his still baby-soft face, and combing his hair with more angst than a character in an Ionesco play.
“What is up with my hair?” he bemoans. “It keeps swirling up in front.” That’s probably due to the many times I brushed it up off his brow while I checked on him as he slept. That’s one way I’ve left my mark on him.
After years of pleading with him to wear long pants at least one day a week, he agreed. The black jeans he has been wearing make his legs look longer and his frame look taller. Wait! He is taller! He has gained yet another inch on me. I no longer can lift him into the grocery cart. Now he lifts the groceries out of the trunk, up our steps, and into the kitchen, carrying three bags at a time in his strong arms.
I always remind him, as he exits the car for his first class at school each weekday, to always be the best little man he can be. This morning he reminded me that he’s not a little man anymore.
“Nevertheless,” I said, “always be the best little man you can be, even when you are a little old man.”
Speaking of little old men, my husband the Brit has never grown up. Perhaps he is simply reverting to his second childhood. Saturday mornings find him seated, bowl of oatmeal in hand, shouting at the television as if a team of soccer players in England can hear his curse-laden instructions.
“Go to the ball! Kick it, don’t walk it into the net, you bloody idiot!” Frankly, he’s so loud that they probably can hear him. They just do what I do. Ignore him.
The difference between The Brit and our young Briteen is their instincts for survival. When hungry, our young man will enter the kitchen in search of cake. Finding a stern grandmother guarding the cake tin, he will fetch an apple, wash it, and eat it while sulking about wanting cake.
The Brit, on the other hand, will call out feebly, “Is there anything to eat?” He must be directed to the kitchen and the apples located in the fridge. He must then be shown, once more, where the plates are kept and the paring knives are stored.
“Would you slice one for me with some cheese?” he weakly implores. This man is by no means feeble or weak. He is simply the most lazy man in the world.
He brings his dirty dishes to the edge of the sink, but never gets them wet by rinsing them off. His idea of putting it away is scarfing down one of my bread puddings.
To such a man, who feebly asks for an apple and some cheese, sliced and brought to him on a plate and accompanied by a cup of tea, I say, “Let him eat cake—as long as he gets it himself!”
Ariel Waterman gets cake for no one but herself! Send her some, sliced on a plate with tea, via her editor Ryan Miller at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 11-18, 2014.
