A fellow teenager mom recently told me that at this point in parenting, it’s time to move from the role of manager to consultant, and I think about this a lot. My son is headed on his 8th-grade trip soon, and I handed over the packing list the school provided with a wish and a prayer. I did review the final contents of his suitcase, but the outfit selections were his alone. Of course it was fine. Not what I would have selected but I looked past the aesthetics of his choices and gave him a high-five for the task.
Recently, before a haircut, my son and I passed my phone back and forth, sharing pictures from Pinterest that I’d searched, looking for some style that met our qualifications. Mine: Hair shorter than his collar; His: Fluffy and tousled on top and not too short around the sides. To his horror and amusement, I searched for ‘Haircuts with rizz.’
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, I hoped rhetorically.
“I’m your mom. It’s my job to keep you in the rizz.”
Shaking his head, he scrolled down and down, eventually finding a look that seemed equal parts messy and trim, and he slid into the barber’s chair with a sigh.
Nothing delights me more than making him laugh, especially with my accidental ineptitude and un-cool Momness. I remember taking over the radio in the car with my mom and quizzing her on pop music.
“Who’s this?” I’d ask, as the opening strains of ‘King of Pain’ by The Police came on.
“Um, The Beatles!” she’d say in mock confidence and enthusiasm.
“No, Mom!” I’d laugh. “It’s the band I taught you!”
“I only know The Beatles. Wait, oh, it’s Fleece!”
“So close, Mom, so close!” I always doubled over with laughter.
Photo Credit Mintosko