Our younger son, 15, has hit a growth spurt.
I’m not sure where the term “growth spurt” comes from. It’s not a very elegant metaphor for the wonders of middle adolescence.
At a recent medical checkup, his practitioner remarked while checking his height: “Wow, it looks like he has grown 3 inches since his last visit. Can that be possible?”
“Yep. Sounds about right,” I said.
I know this because I have watched his pants legs creep up his calves all summer. He is in one of those stages where if you don’t see him for a few weeks he seems (and is) perceptibly taller.
So far, though, his growth has been up, not out. At 5 feet, 9 inches, 115 pounds his body looks like a Little Debbie box with No. 2 pencils for arms and legs.
He did brag the other day that he squat-lifted considerably more than his weight in gym class, although he lags his peers in the bench press. That’s what 12 years of soccer will do for you, focus your strength from the waist down.
“I’m going to start calling you the Quad-father,” I told him, stealing a nickname from one of the Chattanooga Red Wolves players who has massive quadriceps.
The other day his mother took him to Belk to buy a blazer for a school function.
“What size do I need?” he asked.
“Probably a size 38,” I said. “But it may have to be taken in some.”
My wife and I explained to him that 5-9, 115 pounds is not the same as 5-9, 170 pounds when it comes to jacket sizes.
While watching him grow physically is a wonder, watching him grow in maturity this summer has been a pure pleasure.
A couple of months ago he and some buddies got together to do some pressure-washing jobs. There were days, though, when he went door-to-door alone looking for pressure-washing work.
“Son, if you can do that, you’ll never go hungry,” I told him.
My wife, who trailed him in her car from a safe distance, said once or twice he would come back and sit for a minute or two in her SUV just to gather himself.
“This is hard,” he told her, but he managed to bank about $1,500 over the summer.
He was trying to make as much money as he could to buy an inexpensive truck. Last year, he bought a 50-year-old Ford F-350 at the Mecum Auction here that we consider a family heirloom and will never sell. But at 8 miles per gallon of gas, it’s not an ideal daily driver for a soon-to-be 16-year-old.
When a neighbor parked a 2004 Ford Ranger truck in front of his house a couple of weeks ago with a for-sale sign in the window, our son came to me sheepishly to ask if we could go check it out.
“Why don’t you walk down there and talk to the man yourself,” I said. “You know what to ask. If you can knock on doors, you can do this.”
There might be a few 15-year-olds that know more about automobiles than my son, but not many.
About an hour later he came back inside, smiling. He told me he had made friends with the seller, a retired diesel mechanic.
“Will you please go and drive the truck with me,” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
When we got to the man’s house, he shouted out my son’s name as a greeting.
“I want to tell you something, Sir,” he told me. “Your son asked me exactly the right questions. He asked me about 15 things that none of the other men who test-drove this truck today thought to ask me.”
“Like what?” I said.
“Like, when was the last time I serviced the differential,” he said.
I smiled at my son.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I said.
My son had less than half the money he needed to buy the Ranger, but I told him I would float him a loan for the rest and he could pay it back at $100 a month. I figured a kid who would knock on doors to earn money was probably not going to default on his truck loan.
At times, I think God sends us messages that say, “Don’t worry, your baby is going to be OK.”
For me, the summer of 2022 was one of those times.
The Family Life column publishes on Sundays. Contact Mark Kennedy at mkennedy@timesfreepress.com or 423-757-6645.