And Then He Was Fifteen

 Dear Son,

Well this is just getting ridiculous. 

You’re thisclose to being the tallest in the family.

You’re in high school.

I had to buy you special man soap because football pads bring out a…special smell.

And the other day you shaved off your mustache. A very faint, baby mustache but still. You used a razor. On your face. 

Oh, Son. Another year has passed and you are now 15 years old and my 41 year old heart is heavy. 

Heavy with gratitude for your continued health. 

Heavy with tenderness for the secrets I know you hold from me.

Heavy with sadness as your little boy fingers slip from mine.

Heavy with the pressing of time, the ticking reverberating louder and louder; each goodnight more precious than the last for it has never felt more true, that tired old tale we can never fully accept:

It goes too fast. 

Something about you becoming a high schooler has had the seemingly impossible effect of making me an even weepier person than I am already tasked with. Case in point: out on a walk with the dog the other day, I witnessed a toddler having a tantrum, a complete meltdown, and I teared up. I watched this very gracious mother kneel down and wipe his snot tears and try to gratify somehow his surely insane requests and I cried. Because HIS LITTLE VOICE BROKE ME. 

Let me reiterate: A toddler. Having a TANTRUM. Made me miss toddlers. 

I may need professional help at some point. 

Days with toddlers are long and loud, a parent’s ears pleading for silence.

Days with teenagers are short and quiet, a parent’s ears pleading for chatty connection. You’re at the age now where this comes and goes for no apparent reason. At one moment, a cacophony of words spilling from your tongue, the next a closed door with just a grunt of acknowledgement. I never take for granted the momentary overflowing conversation with you as I sometimes do with Daughter. (My only defense is that she speaks approximately 37,000 words a day so I might zone out for a few hundred here and there.) 

I just don’t want to miss anything, Son. I have only four more years of being able to not miss anything and I really really really don’t want to miss anything. I know before I blink my eye you will be off on your next chapter, your next adventure, leaving behind my crumpled, conflicted heart. But my mother always let me fly, even when she was scared, even when she wanted nothing more than to hold me tighter. And I promise you, dear son, that I will do the same, even when I am scared, even when I just want to hold you tighter. 

Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. We are strong and soft. We are brave and terrified. We raise you each day to only then watch you go. So please just be gentle with me as I crowd your sidelines. I know you don’t want or need me to bear witness to each and endeavor you encounter. But try to remember that when I look at you, I can’t help but see my baby boy hiding in the shadow of my young man. Try to remember that even when you are taller than me, smell really nice, grow adequate facial hair and become a grown man, you can always come to me and I will kneel down and wipe your snot tears then lift you up so you can fly. 

Happy 15th Birthday, Baby Mine.

I love you forever.

Mama