A mom’s confession: I’m not ready for him to grow up
It’s here: The second semester of my son’s junior year of high school. And I am not prepared in the slightest. I’m vacillating between feelings of pushing thru another grey winter of school, and mourning what feels like fleeting moments of my son’s youth.
Next year my son will graduate high school. And I’m not ready.
The hardest part is, somewhere between the Mickey Mouse dress up costumes and the Saturday morning kiddie soccer games where no one made goals and the cut-up-every-bite-of-food-into-miniscule-pieces, my little man grew into a big one.
His voice is deeper.
He wears a men’s size large shirt and pants (even if those still drape off his waist slightly).
He devours food like crazy, when he only used to eat macaroni and cheese or hot dogs.
He sleeps in, which is ironic given he didn’t sleep between the years of 2009-2015. I know because he’d often keep me company in the middle of the night, sneaking in to play a silly game we invented called “Spiders” where our hands transform into spiders creeping along the edge of the bed until one fell off.
He watches R-rated movies and doesn’t bat an eye at a stray swear word or bare chest, when before we’d scream the word earmuffs and scuttle him away from the screen.
We’re talking about college and SATs and oil changes for his car.
We’re discussing Spring Break in Siesta Key plans with his friends, and curfews beyond 12am on weekends.
He stays up later than me, hollering with friends thru the headphones of his XBox.
But he still calls me with questions and hearts the random pictures of our cat I send him throughout the school day so he still feels connected to home.
MORE FROM THE CONFESSIONAL:
One of our friends has a son my son’s age, and a daughter my daughter’s age. But they still went first by sending their first-born off to college a year ago. I’ve lived vicariously through her firsts, and it honestly twists my insides into knots knowing my son will soon be there too. Somewhere along the way we traded in childhood for almost-adulthood.
College applications.
SAT scores.
College essays.
Acceptance letters.
All the lasts.
A senior year.
Graduation.
More lasts.
Mini dorm fridges.
New student IDs.
A whole new life away from us, and me, and our foursome, and even the cat.
I know this is the natural progression of life, but I’m not ready.
I guess I have 18 months to get there. Until then though, please excuse my teary eyes. My little man has turned into a big one.
