So, this happened earlier this month.

Our youngest son had already finished all the work of becoming an Eagle Scout; we just hadn’t held the Court of Honor yet. The stars aligned and we got ‘er done a few weeks ago.

Observations:

• big shout out to our dear friend Ben Arnold…he showed up at this event with his wife/one of my closest friends and his camera and took just the loveliest pictures. I always feel like a celebrity with him around. You may have a lawyer to bail you out of jail; I have a paparazzo who will snap  my perp walk and make me look good.
• big shout to one of my closest friends, aka Ben Arnold’s wife, who kept me off the roof during the run up to this moment, which translates to eighteen years of crisis management.
• big shout out to Troop 379, a group that has supported our family for years now. I haven’t participated as much as most other moms, but they always welcomed me when I could be there. What Alan Garlington and the troop have done in giving Craig and the boys wonderful experiences to bond with, and in giving our sons such valuable life lessons…they took pictures at this thing, too. Mrs. Merdich put on the Court of Honor, and it’s red carpet treatment all the way. Thanks to you all.
• big shout out to Dad, Interrupted, who distilled almost everything I love about him into the look on his face when Cole pinned his Eagle Dad pin on him.
• big shout out to Cole, who was not well at all during the COH but held it together with grit and Pepto Bismol. We had no idea he was so…unwell. I won’t go into details, on the off chance you’re a sympathy puker.

I took the opportunity to speak at the ceremony, too. Moms frequently participate; there’s a poem that many of them read that describes how their son went from being a little Cub Scout to a grown man.

There is no way I could have read that without crying. It’s a real tear-jerker.

So I took the opportunity to thank the troop for everything they’ve done for us, and because I’m inherently lazy, I snipped a piece out of Cole’s Eighteen Year Old column that describes my feelings about this perfectly.

And I still almost wound up bawling right there with a microphone in my hand. It’s under the cut.

***

For many years while Sam and Cole were in Scouts I worked two jobs, and so if I wasn’t actually working a weeknight or a weekend, I was doing chores in my ‘down time,’ and so I missed many of the troop functions.

I didn’t meet many of the families in the troop, and so when I was finally able to get to a family camp I had to introduce myself to many of the adults as Craig’s wife, to which one person responded, “I didn’t know Craig HAD a wife.” Later that weekend some of the boys approached Craig at our campsite to ask him if he could accompany them down to the store at the lake, as they needed an adult with them.

Craig said he couldn’t go right then, but I figured I could use the walk so I said I’d go. One of the boys said, “Who are you?” and I was in a smart aleck mood so I said, “Oh, I’m Mr. Evans’ girlfriend.”

They accepted that and ran off to announce to the other scouts, to their delight and Cole’s complete confusion and perhaps horror, that they could all go to the store because Mr. Evans’ girlfriend said she’d go with them.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everyone in the troop, from Alan on down, for all the love and support they’ve given Craig and the boys over the years. I’m authorized to tell you that Mr. Evans’ girlfriend appreciates everything you’ve done for our family.

I know there’s a poem I could read about my son becoming an Eagle, but that doesn’t say what I’d like you to know about Cole. One of the jobs I’ve had is as a very part time columnist for the Ahwatukee Foothills News, and this is an excerpt from a short piece I wrote about him on his eighteenth birthday:

You may not remember this, Cole, but one long-ago summer day I was making dinner and tripped over a dinosaur, because that’s what happens when little boys play underfoot. I cracked my knee hard on the tile and as I lay in front of the fridge writhing in pain you ran into the kitchen, surveyed the situation and cheerfully announced, “I help, Mommy!”

 Displaying aplomb beyond your two years, you stepped over my thrashing form, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a stick of butter and thrust it into my hands with, surreally enough, one of my bras that you had stashed in the crisper drawer for just such an emergency.

 One manic Christmas Eve you broke your elbow jumping on the couch. When we got you to the orthopedic surgeon he gravely announced that he’d have to reset the elbow, and did you want to visit the emergency room for a painkiller or did you just want to do it now? You said “now,” but you gripped my hand tightly and whispered, “Don’t let go.”

 Just last year we were flying together and my pre-check status let me avoid the TSA line. I stayed with you though, so we could chat together during the tedious wait. When we finally arrived at the check in, the agent examined my ticket and said, “Ma’am, you could have skipped this line, you know.”

 “But I wanted to stay with him,” I replied, indicating my tall, gracious, handsome teen-aged son, who flashed a winning smile, grabbed my hand, and murmured knowingly to the agent: “Grandma needs help getting though the airport.”

 Not long ago I had to pick you up at school and as we walked off the campus you reached for my hand. Now, I have always loved it that you want to hold my hand in public, but this is high school! Your friends will see! Are you sure you want to do that?

You held tight to my hand and we walked to the car.

 It hasn’t always been easy. On the day you were born, the doctors used words like “abruption” and “massive blood loss” to explain why you were born blue and still as they worked feverishly to keep you alive. I spent that long first day sitting next to your incubator as you struggled to breathe, and even then your tiny hand tightly gripped my finger.

 I have never wanted to be a helicopter parent and it’s a little late to start that act now. I know I have to relinquish your hand soon; it’s the only way you can march off into your future.

 But even though this is much harder than I anticipated, I’ll try to reset my days the way you reset your elbow, with no tears.

 And I’ll try not to whisper, “Don’t let go.”

© E. Stocking Evans 2016