Washed.

We have a funny gettin’ ready routine, my 16 year old son and I. With one arm and one leg that don’t work well and a voice that only pops up every once in a while, grooming is not only a challenge (I swear it’s why I’m always late) but is always a practice in teaching Iz to care for himself.

I imagine now, at 36, I may die someday and he will need these skills to care for himself. I still pretend I am invincible and eternal sometimes, less often with age.

We have grooming routines down. Iz gets in the shower, does as much as he can and I’ll either reach a hand in to help him rinse off (God bless removable shower heads) or turn the water off, wrap his lower half in a towel, open the curtain to help with what he needs help with, close it back for him to disrobe and rinse.

A couple times a week, it’s the blessed day where we both don our swimsuits because it’s time for him to shave.

I’m okay with his peachy five o’clock shadow but after two days, he’s getting a ‘stache and starting a beard. He wanted a beard for a while so I held off. He’s agreeable and willing to be shaved several times a week now after I excessively complimented and noted his clean shaven face — parental situation management for the win!

I hop in the shower today. Curtain open, we’re both in our swimsuits. I shave his face, smiling, he’s laughing and struggling to keep his lips closed.

Shaving my son’s face is an intimate moment. It is holy, it is scared. I stand in awe of him sometimes, so patient, so willing to wait, so willing to accept help. I admire that about him.

Today, Iz wanted to wash my hair when I rinsed his face off after shaving. Almost like he was saying, “Mom. You’ve always done these things for me. Let me help you now in a way I can. In a way I know how.”

I let my 16 year old son wash my hair. He did a job one would expect a boy of his age to do, there was still a bit of soap in there when he finished. I’d have rather burned in a thousand hells than to ever have complained. I told him how he did so well and by this time, his little brother was watching us laughing at how silly it all was, Mom and Iz standing in an open shower in their swimsuits, washing hair, shaving faces, water was everywhere.

I have thought about this moment all day. How it reminded me of foot washings, of Jesus washing feet, of the sacred communion that comes when we care for each other deeply.

Iz told me without words that he only has so much to realistically give. He can’t write me a letter declaring what a wonderful Mother I am without help. He can’t say “Mom, I love you so much.” and talk for hours about how me being his Mom has impacted him. He can’t bring me breakfast in bed or drive to the store like any other 16 year old boy and buy me something.

But he can say, hey — I know how to do this and I’m able. I don’t need anyone to help me. I can show you I care about you. You taught me how. Let me wash your hair.