On the cusp of adulthood

From Saturday's Briefing:

When I think of Cooper the Boy Scout, I’m usually visualizing his first year.

He was actually a Cub Scout then, a tiny Tiger Cub with an orange neckerchief under his blue uniform collar, round haircut that accentuated his chubby cheeks and a slightly mischievous smile.

He had just started first grade, and he and his daddy were looking forward to learning about camping together.

Cooper embraced the Cub Scout experience, and he continued after his daddy’s death. He grew from Tiger to Wolf to Bear to Webelos and earned the Arrow of Light.

At last, in fifth grade, he was a real Boy Scout, with many more opportunities to camp and learn about all kinds of disciplines, including sailing, photography and American cultures.

And now, just after starting his junior year in high school, Cooper is an Eagle Scout, having earned the highest rank in the organization.

He’ll wear a red, white and blue neckerchief – the kind reserved for Eagle Scouts – under the khaki collar of the same uniform shirt he’s been wearing since 2012 – the one we bought oversized for longevity and now barely fits.

He long ago shed the round haircut, and there’s zero evidence of baby fat on his chiseled face. Yet I’m still surprised sometimes to hear his deep voice in the house, irrationally expecting the squeaky Tiger Cub voice from a decade ago.

I had the same feeling last weekend, as Cooper joined a big group of friends to celebrate homecoming. 

(Technically it’s called forthcoming because his high school hasn’t yet had a graduating class and therefore hasn’t had alums to come home. And most students don’t actually go to the homecoming dance. They get dressed up, take photos, eat dinner out and gather at someone’s home. That’s another topic for another day.)

There were 20 teens, all gussied up, posing in front of fountains and sculptures at an office park not far from home. Every possible combination was documented: All the boys. All the girls. All the soccer players. All the drill team members. All the couples. One couple at a time.

Cooper and his date posed in front of a peculiar water feature – a metal sculpture of a toothy gar devouring a small house.

When Cooper was tiny, we would drive by that same sculpture, and Steve would shout out silly things like, “It’s a fish eating a hotdog!” or “It’s a house eating a fish!” Cooper would giggle and correct him every time: “No! It’s a fish eating a house!”

Those days are long gone. Saturday afternoon, there was Cooper, all 6-foot-4 of him, wearing a charcoal suit and taking a lovely young lady to dinner, yet all I could hear was his toddler laugh.

As the photo session continued, I giggled a few times myself – mostly at the parents, including me. We shouted instructions. We angled for the best shots. We marveled at our children, so dashing and beautiful, so patient with our demands.

We captured images of teenagers in fancy clothes, all while we recalled preschoolers playing dress-up and first days of kindergarten and a time when boys or girls were to be avoided at all cost.

Those teenagers are still our babies, our toddlers, our 6-year-olds, our 10-year-olds. They are all those ages wrapped up in bodies almost fully grown, young people eager to grow up and yet still dependent on the necessities and comforts of home. One day we’ll let them go, but none of us are ready yet.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.