Dear Son,
Well….it was your birthday. In December. And I missed it.
I mean I didn’t miss it. We celebrated and you got a bike and a beach party (yes, in December) and I was a nerd and hung balloons from your door and got up early to make you coffee cake and bacon for breakfast and like the true Southern California boy you are, your only birthday dinner request was for Mexican food.
What I meant is that I just haven’t had time to sit down and reflect on your birthday. Part of it is just this crazy time of year your birthday happens to fall into; right after Thanksgiving and right before Christmas. Having a Christmas newborn was one of the most special experiences of my life but, quite frankly, each year after, your birth day timing has kind of been a pain in the ass.
But the other part of my procrastination is that I’m having a hard time accepting this teenager you’ve suddenly become. This 13 year old young man who resides in my home. And it’s not you…oh no, no, no. You’re doing great. I mean….you have acne and your voice is changing, you don’t really smell yet, but I know it’s coming, and also, you brush your hair every day. And….you wear PANTS! now. PANTS! It’s been my dream for so many years after your rejection of PANTS! of all kinds and seemingly eternal devotion to Old Navy nylon shorts every day no matter WHAT that not only do you brush your hair in a cute little wave every day, you. wear. PANTS!.
You do have your mood swings, although seeing as you’ve always sort of been a stubborn old man, they don’t shock me. The eye-rolling is impressive and frequent but…I…you know….I did birth you. It’s only natural (punishment) that both My Offspring can roll a good eye so I can’t be too mad about it.
You are on the precarious precipice of social awareness and making your own plans and I know that soon enough your friends will be the only people you want to be around, so I am trying to relish the fact that you still like to be home most of the time. Even though that means you are constantly body-checking me and disguising it as a hug.
We are working on your penchant of that agitated tilt to your voice when I ask you things like…How are you? Do you want breakfast? Do you have homework? Can you please not make your sister cry? I try to remember that you need your own space and I shouldn’t smother you with questions so instead I delicately inquire, knowing all too well that sometimes what you need from me is silence, sometimes what you need is a good listener, and sometimes what you need is a good laugh. And on the occasions when you jump in the car and chatter nonstop about music or gym class or baseball, my heart skips a beat and I listen and then take the opportunity to smother you just a little bit with my questions.
See, Son? You are doing just fine.
It’s me.
I’m kind of a mess.
Each time I look at your face that’s changing and shifting (into quite handsomeness I might add), I stare a second longer to find the toddler there. When I say goodnight to you, I let my nose linger against your neck, searching for that doughy smell of little boy. Your ever-deepening voice has me tearfully watching home videos, longing to hear that small, pre-adolescent talk just one more time. I know all of these experiences are gifts of healthy, growing children and the natural progression of life but the knowing of that and the living of it don’t always harmonize. As I watch you grow from boy to young adult, Son, I didn’t realize how much I was going to mourn the leaving of childhood into the entering of manhood. And I’m not ready to lose all of the boy yet. I find myself clinging to it, despite my awareness that as you shift, I also must shift. That despite my desperate longing to kneel down and feel your reckless arms fly around me in a squeezing embrace, I settle for a side hug. And as I wink down at you, my eyes twinkling with adoration and a secret message that I’m trying to be cool and not embarrassing with my side hug, I wonder if there’s a part of you that wants me to kneel down and capture you with arms wide open. I think there is. I hope there always is. I hope you always carry with you the protective arms of your mother, wherever it is that life will take you.
So here we are together, entering this unknown territory of your teenage-hood. I’m not always going to know what to do or what to say, Son. I’ll probably screw up. No, I will screw up. And you will too. But I’m the lucky one that it’s you I get to screw up. I mean love. I mean guide. I mean….you know what I mean. I’m the lucky one that it’s you.
Happy (belated) birthday, Baby Mine.
Love, Mama.
