“Mom, we have a situation,” my newly turned 12-year-old declares, flopping onto the couch opposite me, shattering a rare slice of tranquility as I indulge in a book. I brace myself, hoping this will be worthwhile.
I glance up at his messy hair, clothes smeared with traces of basketball camp, and a face glistening with sweat and sunblock. “Is it that you urgently need a shower?”
“Come on, Mom,” he beams, showcasing his silly smile. “No, I’m just bored.”
Well, that’s a headline-worthy crisis.
“Should I revisit the shower topic?” I inquire.
“Later,” he mumbles, idly twisting his hair with his fingers.
Ah, my little one is exhausted. His familiar gesture instantly tugs at my heartstrings, transporting me back a decade. I recall him in his crib, twirling his hair as he lulled himself to sleep. I picture him at preschool, where I’d sneak glances through the doorway, or dozing off on the camp bus after a long day, and even at the breakfast table following a late night. I see him countless times, eyes growing heavy, fingers spinning in that comforting rhythm.
Over the years, I’ve told him to stop for fear he’d tangle his hair. He never listened, but I suppose he eventually learned just by growing up. I nearly forgot this sweet signal that once assured me it was bedtime. How delightful it is.
I smile, grateful for this delightful disruption of my solitude as I share this moment with him. My husband and middle child are off at a baseball game, and tonight, I opted out of the 8:30 p.m. event for our 9-year-old to stay home with the other boys, who have been out nearly every night this week. These moments of quiet are rare amidst the hustle and bustle of life.
“How was camp?” I ask, although I already posed this question earlier, receiving only a blank stare and an obligatory “fine.” But now he opens up, recounting his day, his birthday, his last baseball game—still twirling his hair.
I soak it all in and remark, “You’re tired, sweetheart.”
“There’s a situation,” he continues, propping his feet on my legs. “I need a snack.”
Even through his socks, the odor wafts up. “Oh, we definitely have a problem here,” I agree, nudging his feet off me. “Go take a shower, please.” He slowly rises but pauses to lean down for a hug—a warm, sweaty embrace that speaks volumes.
I watch his lanky, preteen frame depart. He’s miles away from that crib-bound toddler, but there’s still a hint of childhood lingering within him. As he transitions into adolescence, it’s a bittersweet experience. I relish in witnessing his growth physically, mentally, and socially, yet with each inch he gains, I lose a fragment of my baby.
The sound of the shower starts upstairs. Afterwards, he’ll clean up and retreat to his room, either to read or scroll through his phone. He’s increasingly slipping away into the world of friends, school, and sports. I set my book aside and head to slice him an apple, carefully peeling the skin just the way he likes it.
It’s not a problem at all.
This article was originally published on July 17, 2016.
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In summary, navigating the challenges of parenting a preteen is a blend of joy and nostalgia. These brief interruptions from solitary moments serve as a reminder of the precious connection I still share with my son, even as he grows and embraces his independence.
Keyphrase: Parenting a Preteen
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