Ouch.

Here’s something new.

John hurt his hand at school yesterday. Came home with a bandaid on and a story about the incident at school (it’s two tiny scrapes). That’s not the new part. This is the new part:

“John, did you cry?”

“Mom, no! Of course I didn’t. I was right in the middle of a game and I didn’t want my team to be a man down.”

Now, I’m not saying that John is a giant crybaby, but he’s also not one of those kids that falls, skins both knees, and jumps up ready for more. It usually takes him a little while to recover.

What happened yesterday is that he hurt himself, he acknowledged that it hurt, and he chose to not to let that be his main concern. There were some moments of crisis later on (note: do not put a freshly cut hand underwater). But a year ago, or even a few months ago, it would have been a big problem right there on the spot. Game over.

Moments like this remind me that my little mister is growing up. He’s not just reacting — he’s controlling his reactions. I thought about the same thing the first time I saw him get embarrassed about something. Or the first time he talked about intentionally making a new friend. It makes me realize that he’s more aware of his place in the world now.

I’m not a psychologist. I have no idea what any of this means. But I’m proud of the person that he’s becoming. It’s also sad, because for better or worse: time flies.

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