This morning I walked my son to his first day of junior high school. On our brief walk, he was the adult.
Me: I'm going to miss hanging out and playing strategy games.
Him: We'll still spend plenty of time hanging out.
Me: You'll be busy with school work and friends, which is normal.
Him: I'll need your help with science class.
He was anxious on his first day at a new school with a large campus, new lockers and multiple classes to contend with. He spent a good part of the walk to school consoling me.
The pandemic robbed him, as an eleven year old kid, of the usual contact with other boys his age, but in that vacuum I had the opportunity to become his go-to friend.
I should not take pleasure in his misfortune, but I relished being an eleven year old's playmate.
Eleven is my baseline maturity level. I love finding new and spectacularly bizarre insects, scavenging for agates at the beach, and exploring tidepools for bright and slimy things I've never seen before.
When the pandemic hit, I felt it a mission to make up for the playmates my kids were not getting to see. My eldest, who has a great group of level-headed friends that were thick in the incessant texting age, stayed in touch with her support network.
My youngest, at the age where playdates are scheduled by parents and kids don't respond in a timely manner to emails or texts, was left largely alone - so that's where I focused my efforts.
While I certainly look forward to certain aspects of school and the life rhythms and routine that it brings (quiet lunches alone with my wife; figuring out what I'd like to be when I grow up) there's a sense of loss as well - I am losing my privileged vantage point into his world.
I'm grateful that I got a ringside seat for as long as I was granted one, even as I knew it would come to an end.
I'm just going to miss it far more than I'd thought.
He was as much a crutch for me as I was for him.