Now, when I’m driving my kids around, they take over the radio through the Bluetooth and play their songs from my phone, ruining my Apple Music algorithm and quizzing me the same way I used to. I am at the age when very little embarrasses me, and everything embarrasses them, so I have a lot of material to work with. I make up pretend, terrible lyrics, and provide other amusing commentary. At least it’s amusing to me.
“There’s Elias’ mom! Should we honk at her?” I ask my passengers.
“NO!” they cower in horror. That’s all the prompting I need to roll down my window. “Hey, mama!” I holler out the driver’s side at my friend, tapping the horn, “Looking good!”
She looks up, startled, and laughs at us, waving and grinning, calling back, blowing kisses, “Thank you!”
The kids in the car are mortified. I’m delighted.
Sometimes it’s my turn to be mortified, or at least worried. My teenager has so much going on – homework, soccer, friends, school work, hormones – that his brain sometimes seems to tilt. And of course, it’s this same brain that tells him, appropriately so, that it’s time to assert his independence.
I don’t remember being thirteen as clearly as I do certain snapshots, but I do remember the intensity of it. Wanting space, but also not wanting to be alone in it. I wonder if my mom worried like this. I wonder if she knew how much I was still listening, even when I acted like I wasn’t.
He does things that teenagers do. He texts friends and meets them at the park to play soccer. He takes the bus home from school without me. He gets frustrated when I interfere, get too close, talk too much, comment when my opinion is clearly not requested. I get it. I respect this young man who proves himself to be a responsible human every day, and we trust him to navigate his way.
Photo Credit Olya Kuzovkina