I’m referring, of course, to the one known as Baby Bear.
Lately, I’ve noticed that when he comes home from school, he has to duck his head as he steps off the bus. I’m amazed as well as thankful that he has yet to conk his noggin on the top of the door (she writes as she knocks on wood).
Yesterday, the bus driver pointed out that he can no longer stand up straight on the school bus, that when walking down the aisle to or from his seat, he has to bow his head.
Before long he’ll be hunching over and stepping off the bus looking as if he’s ready to shake hands with an Imperial Majesty or two.
Eventually we’ll have to buy a convertible, or a car with a sun roof that allows his head to stick up and out like a giraffe on a circus train.
“Baby Bear” seems such a misnomer now, but that’s how I think of him. It’s that or Godzilla.
He’ll always be my Baby Bear even when he’s thirty years old, has a beard like one of the ZZ Top guitarists (oh, how we are so not looking forward to the sprouting of whiskers!) and stands I don’t want to think of how many feet tall.
But the fact remains he is still only twelve years old . . . and is now over six feet tall.