Who Put That Cat In The Cradle?

I watched a swim class for a few minutes today. It was for new parents and their babies. I remembered a tiny boy who never wanted to get his face wet, much less go underwater. My son loved to sit in water, but never relaxed enough to be covered by it. It was our job to teach him to respect water, but not to fear it. We must have done an okay job, since it is now much more difficult to get him out of the water than it is to get him in.
What I was feeling was what all parents feel at some point: Where did that baby go? More to the point, what happened to the kid that I could teach everything to? I remember being amazed when I heard my words coming back to me in that halting, helium-induced pitch that was once my son's. His first favorite song came from a DEVO album that almost everyone else had forgotten about, except for me. He asked to hear the title cut, "Shout", on such a regular basis, the CD took up a spot on our five disc changer for a few months.
I remember showing him "Star Wars" (Episode IV - A New Hope - The Good One Before George Lucas Got All Creepy), and the moment that he came running to me with a look of utter glee on his face. "Dad! Luke did it! He blew up the Death Star!" This morning I happened across the first few minutes of "Return of the Jedi" (Episode VI - A Bunch of Muppets - Han Solo Gets Neutered), and I found myself asking my son the name of the monster in the pit into which Jabba is trying to toss Luke. "Sarlacc, dad," he replied with equal measures of confidence and boredom.
I try to kid myself and believe that this is primarily because he doesn't have to remember his Social Security number, or how often he needs to clean his room. But I know the truth. He is ten years old and way ahead of the curve - mine anyway. I've got to do more reading just to keep up with him. In a few years, he'll start dating, and then I'll have a chance to catch up.