When my partner suggested our kids could each choose a toy for our mountain getaway, I wasn’t thrilled. Typically, I oppose unnecessary purchases that contribute to clutter in our home, and I end up cleaning it all up. However, while I was lost in the bliss of selecting new hiking gear, I was blissfully unaware of the toys my partner had allowed the kids to choose.
One child picked a flashy plastic truck that performed stunts and blasted music, while another went for a truck featuring a dinosaur—an odd choice that everyone else found amusing, but I viewed as a bizarre twist in reality. Then came the moment that left me speechless: my oldest child, Zach, had chosen a bow and arrow set.
“Mom said I couldn’t have arrows anymore,” Zach reminded his father.
“That’s because the last time you had something like that, you shot your brother in the eye,” I chimed in.
“It was only near his eye,” Zach insisted, clutching the foam-tipped bow as if it were a prized possession.
“Still, it left a mark for days,” I countered, glancing at our middle child, who was dramatically clinging to his dinosaur truck while the youngest played obliviously nearby.
“Well, he promised not to shoot it at anyone,” my partner replied, holding up a box that proclaimed it contained an inflatable wild boar.
“Oh, come on!” I barely held back my exasperation. “You’re buying him a bow and arrow set and a—how big is that thing? Three feet long?—inflatable boar? You’ve been living in the South for too long!”
“He’s 7,” my partner stated with a tone that suggested this was a sufficient justification for everything.
And thus, I realized there are some moments when a mother must step back and let things unfold. The bow and arrow, alongside the inflatable boar, made their way up to the mountains, where the kids eagerly tore open the packaging and dashed outside to set their sights on the boar—an unfortunate target that seemed annoyed by their enthusiasm.
While at the cabin, the other kids played, but only Zach got to use the bow and arrow. He took aim at the boar, though his skills were still developing, and he often missed his mark. He didn’t pretend to stalk it or create elaborate hunting scenarios; he simply stood there, practicing his aim.
The inflatable boar was unmistakably a boar. Along with its target side, it sported exaggerated tusks and an oddly placed lump, which I found a bit too much. I’m used to blow-up toys that are more appropriate.
Zach relished his newfound gear. The bow and arrows and boar made for serious playtime; he didn’t invite anyone else to join. His father or I could have joined in, but it was clear he wanted this experience all to himself—a solo adventure.
I reflected on how things had changed. Once upon a time, he would interrupt my writing with toys, but now he was off reading his own books and crafting Lego masterpieces. Those days of chasing after him with picture books were fading into memory.
While I expected him to choose something more childish, like the flashy truck, he surprised me with the bow and arrow. He’s hiked up Whiteside Mountain two years in a row and is about to make his First Communion. He even has a custom seersucker suit. But that inflatable boar was a clear sign: my son, my firstborn, is growing up.
Zach giggles at his antics, poking the boar and shooting arrows with a sense of purpose. He’s exploring, laughing, and discovering new interests, clearly no longer the baby he once was. His hair is wild, he reads voraciously, and he’s found joy in outdoor play.
While I miss the little boy who used to need me for everything, I find solace in this new chapter of his life. I can embrace this boar-hunting, giggling, growing creature who still wraps his arms around me and says, “I love you, Mom.”
In the end, choosing to buy him that bow and arrow may have been one of the best decisions after all.
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Summary
This article reflects on the experience of a mother dealing with her child’s growing independence and interests, particularly when he chooses a bow and arrow for play instead of more conventional toys. Through this journey, she grapples with nostalgia and acceptance of her child’s transition into boyhood.