A zit on my boy

Every morning I walk with Graham up over the hill and down the other side, to the bus stop.  He's 10 and a half, I don't need to, really, but it's a nice part of my day, and it's generally a nice part of the day to be outside.

We get there a couple of minutes before the bus comes, and that gives me time to review him.  Invariably, his hair is standing up a little, his shoes a little too loosely tied.

Today, there was a reasonable-sized zit on his nose, and it was a little wake-up call.  Oh no, I thought.  My darling little boy.  I know that puberty is coming on, I can smell it forebodings of it when we wrestle or snuggle at night.  Pubic hair will be a total shock.

Zits.  I had forgotten about them.  This sweet little guy with pretty serious social challenges, at least has the protection of a generally kind and bouncy manner, an infectious laugh, an encyclopedic command of military history, modern weaponry, and Star Wars trivia, and a cherubic face.  I think even the girls think he's cute, if goofy.  But zits!  Oh no!