“I’m not sure if I should be telling you this. There’s no rulebook for this.”
He stands by me, struck by my demeanor. Tears well in my eyes, a few of them sneaking swiftly down my cheeks. I have his attention. I think this is good. But I also wonder how much to reveal. Am I too demonstrative in front of my kids? Will they be okay if I cry? My mom almost never cried in front of me. When she did, it struck fear into my fragile psyche. Was that because she didn’t do it more? Because I didn’t understand that grown-ups have feelings too?
I take a deep breath and wipe my face. Another deep breath. Look at my boy.
“I want you to have friends. If only you knew how happy I am that you have good friends! They are sweet boys and I want you to spend time with them.”
I look my son in the eyes, beg God my words come out honestly and most of all helpfully. “It is good you are growing more independent and connecting with people outside our home. It just feels, sometimes, like you are so interested in doing that that you’ve forgotten about your family altogether. I know that’s not the case—“ I hasten to add—“but that’s how it feels. That’s just. . . that’s just how it feels sometimes. And that hurts a bit. Because I just love you so much.” I slump a little and my words fade as I look down at the kitchen floor and tears come to my eyes again.
I cannot say I am surprised by this. I knew adolescence meant growing independence, a deepening of the divide, a testing of new ways and habits and motivations. My boy is doing exactly what he is supposed to do, exactly what I expect him to do. If he weren’t doing it I might wonder why and try to encourage him to do it. So then why, with all that benefit of foresight and met expectations, does it still hurt so much? To watch my son stretch beyond the easy reach of my protective arm, beyond the happy cocoon of a childhood spent in such constant and joyful presence. To think he could once have been so utterly and happily dependent, so completely attached to me. And to think it is not in spite of but largely because of that strong attachment that he has the fortitude now to forge a new path of his own design—this boggles and bless my staggering mind. My son is growing up. He is choosing friends wisely, showing diligence in school, owning his own time, his own responsibilities, his own choices. He is home every night and I still tuck him in with a prayer and a hug and so often a true soul-quenching moment of conversation. I am so proud of him. How, already, can I possibly miss him this much?
He steps close to me, still nearly a foot shorter than me, long and lean and more boy than adolescent. He is twelve years old. He wraps his lanky arms around me and squeezes and it feels so much like home it takes my breath away.
“I am sorry Mommy. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
Several times he assures me of his love, his arms encircling me, a reminder that my sense of him being so far away is only a feeling, a fear, not yet reality. He is right here, my boy. Right here in my arms asking if I would like to play Memoir 44 with him this week. “We haven’t had our game yet this month.”
And I smile and nod, wipe away another one of those pesky and persistent tears. “I would love that,” I tell him. “I really like spending time with you.”
He smiles at me as we pull apart. “I do too,” he says.
My kids are not little. They are not exactly big. They are in the ubiquitous middle, pulling and pushing and scrunching and stretching their way toward whatever comes next—whatever I and my husband have prepared them for. I am confident in their preparation. I know these pains and pangs of growing up are not red flags but rites of passage. Knowing it and living through it are two different things. I am grateful for both, given the alternatives.
Tonight I will tuck my son into his own bed in his own room in our house. He will dream and scheme of all sorts of adventures beyond our walls. But for now he still does it from the safety of our cocoon. My boy is twelve. Not yet a man. He is still my boy.
