Sitting in the stands at yesterday’s late afternoon soccer game, I held my breath when my son got the ball in front of the goal.
The goalie caught his attempt, but it was a nice shot. Everyone cheered, and above the din, I heard his teammate – their best player nursing an injury – yell, “Nice try, Kelly!”
It took me out of the moment. Until then, none of my boys had been called anything but their first names. The names we chose for them.
But he is 13 – that age when teammates or classmates choose a different name for you. A last name. A shortened version of your own. A weird mashing of words that somehow, they think, describes you. A teenage badge of honor.
I was the only one who noticed. The only one who marked the moment as important.
Then today, another friend, “See ya tomorrow, Kelly!”