A Growing Boy
The last week has been tough for my son and I.
He is 14 now and making sure that I know it. He has an opinion and a response on everything and, truth to be told, it’s driving me nuts. I long for him to just ask me for some mac and cheese or some other inane request.
Then yesterday I am reminded of this essay I wrote some six years ago, when he was half the size he is now. My son is intent on growing up and I am excited by his becoming. But my eyes grow misty when I remember the smaller version of my beautiful boy.
a Growing Boy
On my son’s first night home, some 3 days after he was born, he cried all night. A first time mother, I offered him as much comfort as I could, but still he wailed. I remember looking at him, his face all reddish pink from tearful exertion, and thinking: You Sure Are a Challenge. At some point, I think we both slept for 20 minutes before he started again, challenging me.
The challenge never let up. I think we managed to move ourselves out of his room when he was 4 years old -- and even then he wasn’t really sleeping alone; we just moved his sister into his room.
And companionship wasn’t enough for him. He often needs to place his plump sweaty palm on your cheeks. Truth be told, I taught him this habit when he was a baby; I think one of those parenting books offered it as a weaning method (advice along the lines of “Offer Cheek Instead of Boob”). Whatever the origin, that sweaty palm became his sleeping crutch. That and the dozen or so stuffed animals that he clings to in his slumber.
But in many ways, my son’s neediness suited this at-times equally-needy mother.
For the first two years of his life, my son was my near-constant companion (save for those 8 months that I went back to work in an office, albeit only three or four times a week). He was a terrible napper and would not nap in his crib. At least twice a day, I would squeeze him into a sling, and out I would go onto the street, regardless of weather. My boy is smart; he knew the difference between walking around the apartment, and walking on the pavement outside, and he preferred the latter.
On really hot days -- and Washington has many in summer -- both our torsos would be soaked with sweat. On snowy days, I would take pictures of snowflakes falling on his forehead. I typed out emails one-handed with him asleep on my lap.
At times, our closeness felt suffocating. In hindsight, it served a purpose.
On the long days as a single parent when my husband traveled, my boy may have jeopardised my sanity, but he also provided great comfort. He became the repository of my constant affection. I think we fed each other’s neediness, and his propensity for hugging escalated with every passing day in which I showered him with hugs and kisses. I admit guilt: I’ve raised a hugger. I hope his future partner doesn’t mind.
But there are tensions between the hugs. My boy is sweet, but he is stubbornly independent. And he’s learned to sulk. On sulky days, he will say he doesn’t want to eat noodles, even though noodles are his favourite food. Establishing his identity is as much about defying routine and expectations. It makes pleasing him a challenge. And these challenges are always changing.
My boy is turning a year older, and a part of me is not celebrating. What is there to celebrate? He’s getting so big, almost too big to carry, at least for short little me. At school drop-off, I practically have to beg him for a goodbye hug. He constantly makes tween comments like “Seriously?” and “Oh my God!”. He wants to wear fingerless gloves and a zipped-up hoodie in 90 degree weather, like a teenage rebel without a cause
I am not ready for his growing up.
But perhaps he is not ready either.
Yesterday, we took a small walk, around the neighbourhood of high-rises near my office building. We talked about the toys that he may want as birthday presents. Ever so considerate, he said, You don’t have to get me something big, Mom. I gave him a small squeeze. We held hands down the street in silence.
I told him, Do you remember that I used to carry you for almost all your naps, rain or snow. He looked up at me, his cheeks as pink as they were at birth, his expression full of challenge as ever, and says “I remember Momma.” He lets out a big smile, squeezes my hand, and says “I love you Momma. Thanks for taking care of me.” My dearest sweet boy, the thanks are all mine.
a growing boy
