Wednesday, April 10, 2013

The Rock Collection

When you’re six, do broken pieces of jackhammered sidewalk count as rocks? Gravel, or worn, crumbling pieces of pavement? When you feel the need to pick up these things, sometimes in gargantuan mounds, spilling over onto floors and under the bed, your parents may suggest you start what’s called, a collection, to which a six-year-old may reply, "What's that?"
 

When I used to open up my son’s backpack and find what you see in the picture, I’d sigh a frustrated sigh. “Oh Cameron, why all the rocks?! Honey, we don’t need these all over the house, ok?” I’d have conversations with him, asking about the importance of this literal baggage, weighing down his lunch bag, backpack, and sweatshirt pockets. I’ve even hidden behind the kitchen wall while slowly opening the trash bin, to let them quietly land there when he wasn’t looking. “Terrible mom!” you shout.

But this morning, it dawned on me that one day, in just a little over a decade, he’ll no longer live at home, and I won’t have this daily chore. It would seem a decade is long, but then I think, I’ve lived almost 4 of those tiny little things. So fast forward just one more, I’ll be in the garage alone, gazing at THE bucket. The holder of all rocks. The rock collection bucket.

About a year ago, I realized this was not a phase, and that the process of picking up and keeping rocks truly brings him joy. So, I decided to accept the rocks.

When I see them, I comment on their interesting features. We talk about whether it’s a chalk rock (one that makes white marks on the ground), a worry rock (one that has a white line around it that you can trace with your finger), or whether it would be a good skipping stone. I’ve even envisioned myself in the garage when I’m old and gray, making some form of art piece with all the rocks, to present it to his wife if he should ever marry.

Just this morning, after he’d already gone to school, I found 5 rocks in my shoe as I was rushing out the door. I could’ve placed them in the street, or even thrown them away, but not a chance. I shook them out and set them aside. When I get home, I’ll add them to his rock collection.

I can’t say each rock has been carefully selected, but the bucket, which is piling over with at least three years of love – each rock from a different place and moment in time – is representative of so much joy. His, and now mine.