**Warning—this one’s not a funny one!**

John and Toby went to Pennsylvania for a youth fishing day with John’s college friends and their children. It was a fantastic trip and Toby had so much fun, but one moment made my heart hurt a bit.

They woke up early on Saturday and hit the river, fishing for a while. But when I talked to them mid-morning, Toby and John were back at John’s truck, with Toby very happy and drawing away in a notebook. John said Toby was fine, but just needed a little bit of a break, and after a bit they went right back to fishing with the group. Toby had a grand time, and told us he wanted to go live with Grant (probably because he got to drive a Bobcat).

But I knew just what that interlude back at the truck was—it was Toby’s introvert needing to put a pause on all the interaction. It’s something I recognize because I check ALL the boxes on those internet ‘are you an introvert?’ quizzes. After times of social interaction, I need a check-out period to ground myself. I don’t make friends easily at all, and as I get older it gets even harder for me.

I really hoped Toby had inherited John’s easy way with people, his gregarious ‘I’ll talk to anybody anytime,’ nature. But I see a lot of myself in Toby at times—a withdrawal in new settings or with new people, a hesitancy in reaching out. He worries a lot about who his friends are at school. It concerns me, because I know that many times life isn’t easy as an introvert. It’s lonely and stressful and a constant battle.

I want better for Toby. I want him to unquestioningly believe people like him, and to not worry all the time. I want him to have lots of friends. I want him to sail through life with confidence and be sure of himself.

I know I can’t change him—he’s wired the way he’s wired, and it looks like he’s wired a bit more like me than I would have hoped. But I hope I can give him some tools to help him navigate life with that wiring. He likes tools, so hopefully along with his hammer and wrench I can figure out how to equip him with self-knowledge and coping strategies. Wish me luck! (And if anyone has great advice on how to equip him, I’d love to hear it!)

The other night, Toby asked me a pretty simple question. Can he have a fabric placemat like the ones Captain and I use, instead of the cute, laminated one we got him from Bass Pro Shop probably more than a year ago.

“Sure!” I chirped and made the swap, washing the plastic camping scene one more time and storing it in a cupboard. The tug it made on my heart was inordinately large compared to the simple request. I couldn’t stop thinking, “I don’t know if I’m ready for him to use an adult placemat?!” Nooooooo.

To be fair, he’s by far a cleaner eater than Captain. And has been since about age 2. I really should just give Captain the Bass Pro laminated one.

But it’s yet another one of those little moments when the inevitable and inexorable march from baby to man becomes ever more evident. When these mini-humans are younger, there are those ever-so-important “milestones.” Smiling. Laughing. Crawling. Walking. The bucket list of infanthood. We wait expectantly for each one, rejoicing when our child resembles a blob a bit less and a human a bit more.

Then they hit the phase where they somewhat resemble a person. They walk. They talk in sentences. They run. They say no. A lot. There aren’t really any new ‘skills’ to attain. You know, other than sarcasm. I can’t wait til Toby masters that one. Given his genes, it’ll be soon.

The waypoints on the journey morph from milestones to milepebbles. You cruise through the days, with these munchkins every so gradually learning new words, to skip, how to slam the bedroom door. The road seems to level off, without the dramatic ups and downs and the huge, recognizable, photo-op ‘milestones.’

Now it’s the little tiny moments that every so often jump up out of nowhere and remind you of the progress being made. The correct usage of “actually” in a sentence. The night he puts a sensible amount of toothpaste on his toothbrush. The day he puts his own socks on, paying careful attention to where the heel goes. The time his face crumples when he tells you that none of his friends are going to come to his birthday “Because they don’t know where Lorne Rd. is.” And as I hug him and assure him I’ll make sure they know how to get here, I marvel that he has this social life so separate and that I’m going to have to add worrying about his little introverted self (oh, I can tell already) navigating it to my list.

The milepebbles are definitely more bittersweet than the milestones, somehow. They’re like glimpses of the future popping up when you least expect it. It’s so much fun to see who he’s becoming, but it makes me wistful to think of the parts of him he’s leaving behind. I’m keeping the Bass Pro placement. It’ll come in handy for Captain, at least.

My father literally snorted when we told him Toby was going to start playing soccer at the local YMCA.

“So, this makes you… a soccer mom???!!!!” he queried incredulously.

This is what happens when you spend your 20s gallivanting, surround yourself with animals and profess they’re your children, don’t get married until you’re 38 and then wait until 40 to create another human. Me becoming a mother boggled Dad’s mind. Me becoming a suburban stereotype? He just can’t imagine it.

But it’s OK, really, because I’m not really the “soccer mom” in this scenario. Sure, I signed the kid up and I’ll be in attendance at every practice and game I can. But I am much more laid back about this whole process than a certain male spouse in this household.

Did you know they make shin-guards for 3-year-olds? We bought shin-guards the size of my hand. And they were the MEDIUM size!!! Are there 2-year-olds out there signing up for soccer?

Toddler-size cleats, however, those they don’t stock at sporting goods stores in sizes small enough. Those, my friends, we had to order off Amazon. They’re on their way.

I would have been happy sending the munchkin to practice in tennis shoes and socks. I mean, really, I anticipate this first year of play to being focused mostly on not falling flat on his back while trying to kick the ball. Shin-guards I can maybe see, mostly from a “Why not be as preventative as possible” perspective. But cleats? We’re going to be lucky if these kids stay within the confines of the field and don’t beat feet down the road. Why give them more traction to terrorize?

After our trip to buy equipment to preserve my child’s fibulas and tibias, we dined (that word is an exaggeration if I ever heard one) at Buffalo Wild Wings, Toby’s FAVORITE. (YOU haven’t lived until you’ve heard ‘Buffawo Wiud Wins’ pronounced with the 3-year-old lisp.) A U.S. women’s soccer game was on the big screen, and Toby watched, positively entranced.

We didn’t talk too much about what was going on with the game, but the next night during dinner, he told us, “There are two goals in soccer.” It’s a start. Bring on the soccer!!!