Poverty

Happily in California to celebrate Luke’s 13th birthday.

Seemed like he’d been stretched,  limbs elongated,  pulling him from boy towards young man.

Luke’s party included: a sleepover, Norwegian pancakes and a trek to the beach to surf and picnic. Weather nixed surfing, so  mini-golfing.  No school, teacher conferences.  Another birthday gift.

Last night, we sat at table, enjoying cake, ice cream and boys being boys: shoving, poking, erupting in laughter whenever anyone mentioned balls:  baseball, basketball, soccerball. Balls.

It reminded me of a long ago conversation,  while driving Lily and her friend, both eight or nine. My ears perked up when I heard,  “I’ve been reading this book from my parents.  It talks about what’s going to happen to our bodies, as we grow up.  It’s called, ‘poverty.’ “

Listening to twelve and thirteen year old boys, brought it back.

Poverty. 

At one point in the party, one of Luke’s friends held up a spoon, like reporter with mic, and asked,”So how does it feel to be a teenager?”

Luke grinned, cleared his throat and replied,” I’m starting to feel surly, want to paint graffiti somewhere,  start doing what everyone else is doing,  so I can fit in.”  Loud, long laughter.

After awhile, they cleared the dishes and resumed the newest craze, water bottle flipping.

Puberty.

Growing up.

Poverty.

Neediness.

No matter how they act, they need us.

And we need them.

So we, like they, don’t try to be someone we’re not, just to fit in.

Poverty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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