I was reminded of that today at work. Jason, the seven year old I watch, hurt his hand while we were playing jump rope. I could tell it really hurt him, but instead of crying, he reacted in a completely different way. He grimaced, shook his hand slightly, and assured me that he was alright. It amazes me that this little boy with a love of discussing body fluids, who shakes his butt to Hannah Montana, and spends more time shoving his feet into his little sisters face than playing nice with her, would respond that way. In no other facet of his life his he mature. He has all the charm of seven year old, the energy, the appetite, the high pitched girly scream that he uses to rupture ear drums... but at seven he behaves as a man does, and doesn't make a big deal about getting hurt. He doesn't cry, he doesn't complain, he won't even admit it to the babysitter he professes love for and routinely uses as a seat cushion. It's funny, I've known his since he was three and I don't ever remember him really crying.
He's not my son, so you may think it strange that I feel this way, but in that moment i was so proud of him. I was proud to see him growing up to be a strong young man. Yes he's seven and loves to jump to the rhyme "Cinderella dressed in yellow" while I teach his sister how to turn a jump rope, but I saw in him today a little bit of the man he will become and that it took my breath away. It was just a small reminder of why I love to work with children.
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