Last night, my 14 year old laid on the couch with me for a brief moment in time. Holding him felt like cuddling a ski equipment bag: all kinds of pokey and uncomfortable angles jabbing into my sides, arms, and chest.
I was the first to get up.
I woke up thinking about that. And regretting it.
He asked me a question, and I sat up to launch into some overly longwinded explanation that he hardly cared to hear. I don’t think it was about the answer. It was his way of staying close for a moment.
I wish I would have just held onto him. Maybe said a few less words.
It was a lucky moment in the life of a mom of teens, him, falling into my arms.
I sometimes forget that he is not who he was five or ten years ago, despite the fact that I still see his juicy baby cheeks when I look at him. The little boy version of him “saving all the bugs” and donning Superman costumes still lives in my heart and mind, like a spirit floating in the backdrop. Silent, but felt.
I have to savor any offering he’ll give to me. Any hug. Any small detail about his sports, his friends, his school, his crushes—anything at all.
These offerings get more fleeting as he ages, I can feel it in my achy mom heart.
On my recent retreat, I had two incredible women I had not met before. They shared about their relationships with their adult sons, both of them, boy moms to two grown men. Listening to them felt like time travel, like a ghost of Christmas future.
Each of them had one relationship with a son to whom they were very close. And another, with whom they felt very distant.
Hearing them reflect on their stories and their pains about the distance between their sons made me feel introspective and quiet.
Where I am, a parent takes their proximity to their children for granted, falsely believing we will always have this access, this authority, this significance in their lives.
But I know it won’t always be like this.
And these women were gentle reminders that I can’t possibly know what the future holds for my relationship with each of my kids.
They will fall in love (I hope), they may one day marry, have kids, and careers, and friends of their own. They may remember some good things about their childhood, about me, and about their dad. But they also might remember things they hated about us. Ways in which we royally screwed up. Ways in which we missed them. Ways in which we made them feel small without meaning to.
These are things I just can’t know yet. Nor control.
What I do have is right now. Whatever offering comes my way today. The access for this moment in time.
I think next time the ski bag lands on my lap, I’ll hold on for a little longer.
To find out more about my other writing and offerings, please see my website. xxo
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