Good Job!

"Dad, can you take me to go apply for a job?" asked Brad, newly 16. I glanced at his fashionable interview attire, consisting of a t-shirt, board shorts, and sneakers with untied laces.

"Do you want to just apply for a job, or actually get one?" I replied.

"Huh?"

"No employer is going to hire you if you dress like a beach bum," I said.

"But I'm applying at Jamba Juice. Everyone there wears shorts and a t-shirt," Brad noted.

"They may let you dress like that after you get the job, but the boss will take you more seriously if you dress professionally for the interview," I said.

"When you say 'professionally,' you don't mean like you, do you?" he replied with raw panic in his voice. "I don't want to look like a dork!"

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" I snorted.

"It's not an insult," Brad replied, rushing to repair the damage. "I mean, see, it's OK for you to dress like a dork because everyone expects it, but there's no way that I …"

"Thanks for clarifying that," I interrupted. "And just what is wrong with the way I dress?"

Brad glanced down at my polished burgundy wing tip shoes. "Well, for starters …"

"Never mind!" I snapped. "The point is that the person doing the hiring is not going to be a teenager. It will be someone who dresses like me, and we dorks like to hire other people who dress like dorks. Trust me on this."

Brad emerged from his room ten minutes later, looking very dapper in his black slacks, gray shirt and maroon tie.

"You look great," I offered.

"If anyone sees me I'll move to another town," he replied.

We got in the car and made our way toward the juice bar.

15 minutes later . . .

Brad floated out the door and toward the car.

"I start Wednesday," he said.

"Congratulations," I said, extending my palm for a high five.

Brad grinned.

"So, was I right or was I right?" I gloated.

"You were right," he agreed.

"Does the old man know what he is talking about?" I prodded.

"Yeah," Brad acquiesced.

"So, am I one cool dude or what?" I pushed.

Brad glanced down at my shoes.

"Let's not push it," he advised.

Word traveled fast to friends and family that Brad has landed his first real job.

His Grandma casually asked me, "So, what's it like having both your boys working at real jobs?"

"Great," I replied. "It gives them something to do with their summers, no whining about being bored, and I can hit them up for a loan for little luxuries like food to refill the refrigerator that they strip like locusts every day."

I said the words glibly, and on one level I meant them. But even as I joked around I felt a sinking sensation in my chest. It was the same mix of euphoria and wistfulness that washed over me when they took their first hesitant steps, rode a bike without training wheels, sprouted a faint mustache — they are growing up and I know where this is going. And I don't like it one little bit.

And I do.

And I don't.

And I . . .

Part of me is cheering them on. And part of me longs deeply for those days when I got cramps in my leg from bouncing them in a game of horsy ride. I miss having a grinning, drooling toddler latched to my shin. I would hand you a thousand dollars if I could hear those giggles, and have those leg cramps, one more time.

But that is ancient history now.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, God has been easing my boys away from me and into independence.

When your kid gets a job, it is a sure sign you are losing yours.

God, I know this is your plan, but I don't like it.

But then again, this is great . . .