Catching a peek at the man my son will one day becaome

My oldest turned 9 years old the other day. Which means he’s closer to 18 than he was to the day he was born. Of course, he still acts like a numbskull, blockhead, dunce and donkey most of the time — you know, like a regular kid — so I’m not yet feeling the panic of his impending adulthood.

But sometimes I catch glimpses of it, and I’m damn near dazzled at what’s to come. It’s not something that happens with any regularity, and I’m always kind of surprised when it occurs. But it’s there. I’m sure every parent knows the feeling. Out of nowhere, a peek into the future. and his family, as they live in San Francisco and we only see them this one time a year.

So there’s the setup. It’s the first night, around 11 p.m., already hours past everyone’s bedtimes. There are two double beds in one room, and a pullout couch in the other. My girls take the couch, my wife and I the two beds (for later, when we know the girls will clamber in).

My son? He decided to forgo the air mattress we had and decided he wanted to sleep on the couch cushions on the floor. Whatever. Fine. We got more linens and my wife fashioned a bed for the kid.

It’s dark. All the lights are out. I’m already in bed. My wife kneeled down to give my son a goodnight kiss. He sensed it and shot up.

His head, her lip. Two quick bursts of screaming. Parsippany police there was not, in fact, a murder in room 349 despite what the cleaning staff might’ve said).

My wife was in the bathroom, tending to her lip. My son was curled in a ball screaming. Not from pain, but because he felt horrible. We repeatedly told him it wasn’t his fault, but he wasn’t buying it.

“You definitely need stitches,” I told my wife. “Let me call my dad.”

My dad is not a doctor, but he is a warm body. He could’ve come over to the hotel to sit with my kids while I went with my wife to the hospital.

She wouldn’t allow it. Didn’t want me to wake him up. Said she could go herself. And I knew she could’ve gone by herself, but I didn’t want her to. Of course not.

I decided to call my dad. Left the bathroom and my wife to grab my phone.

“No you’re not,” I said. “Get back to bed.”

He stood his ground. Literally. Didn’t move. My wife came out of the bathroom, and he repeated himself. My wife also told him to go back to bed. “I’m going,” he repeated. His whole face was different. I’ll let a cliche do the talking here — it was a steely resolve. Never seen it before.

My wife and I looked at each other. She saw it as well. There really wasn’t much of a choice here. She grabbed her keys and purse with one hand, keeping a bloodied washcloth to her lip with the other. They walked out of the room.

And yeah, he was only 8 and yes, I realize there wasn’t much he was going to do, but damn if I didn’t feel better knowing he was going to accompany my wife to the hospital. There was something different about him. She was in good hands.

I caught that glimpse. asked if she was OK, to which he replied, “She is fine” and the thumbs-up emoji. Man of few words, it appears. Just like his Dad, hardy-har-har.

***** I just want to be clear here: In the days that followed, he’s yelled at his sisters, pitched a fit each night about bedtime, pitched a fit each night about taking a shower, refused to listen to me when I told him he couldn’t have a friend come over because we were going out in 45 minutes and then he took it upon himself to call his friend and talk to his mom and invite the kid over anyway, and continues to fail to grasp the concept of “dirty clothes belong in the laundry basket, not scattered over your floor like a hobo on holiday.”

In short, he’s not some superhuman 9-year-old. He’s a regular kid. But every so often … a glimpse.