My oldest son, my second child, turns 17.
I snapped a picture of him, still bleary-eyed, straight out of bed this morning, before I left for work.
I figure that someday when he's my age, he might want to look back at that picture and be amazed at the outline of each muscle.
He works out every day, playing basketball, lifting weights, running around the track. Then he comes home and drinks milk sprinkled with protein powder and two peanut butter sandwiches. He is trying to put on weight, to add more bulk to the figure that crouches under the basket ready to rebound.
Some people say they hate to see their boys changing into men. I'm amazed.
How could that chubby, curious boy in velcro tennis shoes turn into this muscled man?
And I wonder what he will become.
I wonder if he'll be obsessed with exercise like my older brother, continuing to work out and eat protein-rich foods.
I wonder if he'll be obsessed with sports, like my dad who plays golf five days a week and watches every other sport on TV.
I wonder if he'll find a career he loves that answers his philosophical questions and gives him the chance to explore things with his hands.
I wonder if he'll find a wife who appreciates how fiercely he loves.
For now though, I fetched Long John donuts and chocolate milk for a sugar laden breakfast. I let him open a present that he might want to wear to school. He can never have too many Ohio State shirts.
We'll meet him and Tucker at the local burger joint for hamburgers and shakes before Earl rushes off to work. And this evening he'll head to the gym again for basketball practice, hoping each jump stretches him out just a little taller, each lope with his long legs adds a bit more muscle.
Happy Birthday, Spencer.
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