My son and I used to share a unique bond, communicating effortlessly through laughter and play. In his younger years, we would shed tears together when Steve left for college on Blues Clues, and harmonize to the catchy tune of Bear in the Big Blue House. Our walks often turned into adventures, pausing at every construction site so he could wave at the Mighty Machines. Sure, there were moments when I longed for a break during yet another episode of The Wiggles, but those memories now bring a smile to my face.
Fast forward to today, and my little boy has grown taller than me, his voice deepening each day. I watch him with a mix of awe and melancholy, realizing that our once-simple conversations have become a struggle. Now, I often find myself stifling yawns as he enthusiastically recounts his online gaming exploits, detailing his Team Fortress II achievements and the intricacies of his Steam backpack—topics I can hardly grasp, despite considering myself a geek.
I attempted to ignite his interest in my favorite sci-fi shows like Star Trek and Doctor Who, hoping for spirited debates about the best Doctor (the answer, of course, is David Tennant). When it became clear that Daleks weren’t his style, I pivoted to dystopian narratives, thinking The Walking Dead would catch his attention. I even immersed myself in the comics, believing the thrill of zombie kills would entice him. Yet, it turned out that watching YouTube tutorials on Skyrim was far more appealing to him. Clearly, our geek languages had diverged.
When he was a preschooler, his rendition of “Three Green and Speckled Frogs” showcased his lovely voice. Now, in the eye-rolling phase of adolescence, I figured music might bridge the gap. I decided to channel my inner angst from the grunge era and blasted Radiohead’s “Creep,” convinced it would resonate with him. However, I quickly learned that my enthusiastic karaoke would earn me laughter rather than bonding. My teenage son, witnessing his 40-year-old mother belting out lines about feeling like an outsider, found it utterly absurd.
Despite our differing interests, I found reassurance in the fact that our relationship remained solid. We often ventured into TMI territory, as he candidly discussed the changes in his body, which confirmed that I had successfully kept the lines of communication open. However, I longed to impart important lessons about sex education, from how to use a condom to the nuances of intimacy.
I sought advice from friends who had successfully navigated the teenage years. They reassured me that this stage is all about giving space, but that kids eventually return to their parents, recognizing the wisdom we’ve accumulated. Just as I resigned myself to a few more years of communication hurdles, a breakthrough occurred.
It happened during one of his frequent kitchen raids, where teenage boys seem to perpetually seek sustenance. While whipping up his favorite macaroni and cheese, he leaned in for a snack and a kiss, prompting him to ask about the ingredients. It was the perfect opportunity to discuss the importance of cooking skills before heading off to college. To my delight, he agreed that living on ramen alone wouldn’t be ideal.
Now, he doesn’t join me in the kitchen every night, but he often assumes the role of sous chef. Our cooking sessions have become a time for conversation, where we discuss his day or reminisce about humorous family moments. As I explain the roles of various spices and why baking soda and baking powder are not interchangeable, we’ve rekindled our connection.
In realizing I didn’t need to force new trends or gimmicks to strengthen our relationship, I discovered that simply being his mom was enough.