Updated: July 17, 2016
Originally Published: July 17, 2016
“Mom, we need to talk,” my newly minted 12-year-old, Jake, declares as he drops onto the couch opposite me, shattering a rare moment of tranquility while I’m engrossed in a book. This better be interesting.
I glance up at his unkempt hair, clothes stained from a day at basketball camp, and a face sticky with sweat and sunscreen. “Is it that you really need a shower?”
“Mom, come on,” he responds, flashing his signature goofy grin. “No, it’s that I’m bored.”
Well, that’s compelling.
“Should I mention the shower again?” I ask playfully.
“Later,” he replies, absentmindedly twisting his hair with his fingers.
Ah, my child is exhausted. That simple gesture instantly tugs at my heartstrings and transports me back in time. I recall him as a toddler, putting himself to bed, twirling his hair. I remember sneaking glances during nursery school drop-offs, watching him drowsy on the camp bus after a long day, and the mornings after late nights, his eyes heavy and fingers fidgeting.
Over the years, I’ve told him countless times to stop twisting his hair, worried he’d create knots, but he never listened—until he grew up, I suppose. I nearly forgot that little sign, the one that let me know it was time for bed. It’s so heartwarming.
I smile, grateful for this interruption of my solitary moment to share time with him. My husband and our middle son are at a baseball game, and I chose to skip the late-night event—yes, a game at 8:30 p.m. for a 9-year-old—so I could stay home with the other boys, who have been out nearly every night this week. It’s rare to find such quiet time together.
“So, how was camp?” I ask, even though I already posed this question earlier to a blank stare and a half-hearted “fine.” This time, he opens up, recounting his day, his birthday, and his last baseball game, all while continuing to twirl his hair.
I soak in his words, then say, “You’re really tired, aren’t you?”
“There’s another problem,” he says, lifting his feet onto my lap. “I need a snack.”
Even through his socks, I catch a whiff of their odor. “Oh, there’s definitely a problem here,” I concur, playfully nudging him off. “Go take a shower.” He slowly rises but pauses to lean down and hug me—a warm, sweaty embrace.
I watch his lanky, preteen frame move away. He’s grown so much since he was that little boy in the crib, yet there’s still a hint of baby left in him. Like all milestones, this transition into adolescence is bittersweet. I relish watching him develop physically, mentally, and socially, but with each growth spurt and step towards independence, I feel myself losing a piece of my baby.
I can hear the shower running upstairs. Afterward, he’ll probably retreat to his room to read or play on his phone, drifting further away into his own world filled with friends, school, sports, and life. Setting my book aside, I decide to slice him an apple, removing the skin just the way he likes it.
It’s not a problem at all.
This article originally appeared on July 17, 2016.
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Summary:
In moments of quiet, a mother reflects on her preteen son’s transition from childhood to adolescence. Their interactions reveal the bittersweet nature of parenting as he grows more independent. Despite the challenges, she cherishes these brief moments together, highlighting the importance of being present and nurturing their bond.
Keyphrase: tween parenting
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