His voice hasn’t fully transitioned yet, but I can sense the change lurking like a distant train. It carries a rough edge now, especially when I wake him and hear him say, “Morning, Mom.” These days, he stirs from sleep with a noticeable reluctance, no longer jumping out of bed at the crack of dawn without any prompting.
Welcome to 13.
I can’t believe I have a teenage son—didn’t I just finish high school a few years back? Yet here he is, my newly minted teen, so reminiscent and yet so different from the tiny baby I once held. We’re navigating unfamiliar waters, reminiscent of the day he was born, filled with both nostalgia and uncertainty: the shift into a new chapter, knowing full well there’s no handbook for this phase.
Nowadays, his door closes and locks behind him, making it clear that the rest of us need an appointment to enter his domain. I grapple with this: should I let it slide? Allow him privacy but not total seclusion? He deserves his own space, but I worry about how he’s using it. Is he merely exploring his identity, or is he hiding online interactions with strangers or indulging in questionable YouTube content? I’ve read the horror stories of parents who didn’t know, and while I hope I’m overreacting, it’s hard to balance privacy with the urge to intervene.
This is what 13 feels like. It’s tough to let go.
He’s messy, and he seems indifferent to it. I find myself constantly asking, “When was the last time you washed your hair?” or “Did you brush your teeth today?” Back when he was a baby, I would bury my nose in his hair, savoring his sweet scent. Now, I catch a whiff of him and instinctively recoil, but I can’t just scoop him up and force him into the tub like I used to. I try to entice him with deodorant and toothpaste like they’re gifts, and he reacts like any kid would—confused and slightly annoyed.
His desk and every available surface in his room are cluttered with stale chip crumbs and dirty dishes, while his laundry piles up on the floor, refusing to make it to the hamper. I can’t comprehend how he tolerates the mess, but I know it’s time to give him more autonomy over his space. When I ask how long he’s been wearing those underwear, he shrugs nonchalantly, “Like four days?” and I detect a hint of pride, as if it’s an achievement of sorts.
This is what 13 smells like—like body odor.
He still enjoys cartoons, but they’ve upgraded to the big-kid variety, far removed from the toddler shows he once adored. His video games are now pricier and more complex. I can no longer choose his outfits; his idea of dressing up is a pair of non-ripped pants paired with a poop emoji t-shirt. His shoes are almost as big as mine, and when he’s shirtless, I see he’s starting to bulk up, those spindly limbs transforming into something stronger.
Suddenly, his pants are too short even though I just bought them. He devours food like it’s air, a constant flow of requests (“Mom, can you get some Lucky Charms and ramen noodles and chili lime Takis?”), leading me to the grocery store yet again, all while I’m on the hunt for new pants. Again.
This is 13. It’s painfully expensive.
Thirteen feels like attempting to hold onto a fish underwater, knowing you’ll have to eventually let it go. It’s about the weight of uncertainty regarding how much freedom to give him. I feel pride as I witness the independent person he’s becoming, along with the ache of realizing he’s stepping further away from me.
Right now, he’s still affectionate, and I cherish every hug and dwindling cuddle, knowing they won’t last forever. I can still feel him as a baby, curled up on my chest, nestled in my lap—a ghost of the little boy he once was. I’ll keep tousling his hair and softly touching his cheek, no matter how grown he becomes. I must. To me, he will always be my baby, even if he’s not.
“You’re the best mom,” he says, when he’s not arguing that I’m the worst. His voice has dropped slightly more than it did last week. I hear that train approaching, and all I can do now is step back and let it pass.
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In summary, navigating the teenage years is a complex blend of letting go and holding on, of pride and concern, as our children step into their independence.
Keyphrase: teenage son turning 13
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