When my daughter was 11, I read a great book about parenting teens,
especially teenage girls, called Get Out
of My Life, but First Could You Drive Me & Cheryl to the Mall: A Parent's
Guide to the New Teenager, by Anthony Wolf.
It promised that through all the hormone rages (hers and mine) that she
would come back and it delivered on that promise. My daughter is now a junior at NYU Tisch,
studying screenwriting. And for all the
drama that led up to this, in fits and starts, sometimes long weeks of chaos,
sometimes just hours of unbearable tension, it’s good now. Consistently good. Not without the expected level of
disagreements, but really, really great.
And so now I find myself hoping that all the advice given to me by my
friends with boys holds true. That the
battles I was told to expect at 17, and then again at 19, the ones that are
apparently just ramping up now, pass and that my relationship with my son circles
back to be really, really great. Because
right now, several months into 17, after his first girlfriend and first
breakup, after getting his license and tasting freedom, after landing and
loving his part-time job after school, after all that, all of which went
relatively smoothly, we have arrived at “this.”
“This” is him snapping at me. “This”
is me snapping back. “This” is him
sharing that he realizes he could have tried harder in school and that now he
“gets it.” That he desperately (my word, not his) wants to get into Rutgers for
computer science. That he is going to do
everything that he can to get in—full departmental tours, taking the SATs two
more times(!!!), studying like crazy, changing his course to include more math. Getting a math tutor for the year. And he’s doing all of this.
Yet this morning, I awoke at 8:35 realizing there wasn’t enough
movement in the house. I went upstairs
and found him doing level design work (a hobby left over from when he wanted to
do computer game design) at his PC. He
was supposed to be getting ready to go to a test prep class. He said he didn’t feel good. I said, “Okay, so you’ll be calling out sick
from work?” “No, no one can take my
place,” he said. “Well, no one can take
your place on test day, so I suggest you get to the test prep center.”
“No,” was his response. Flat
out, level, no emotion, no hesitation.
“No.”
And equally without hesitation or forethought, I whipped out, “Well,
then I’m disappointed in you.” I drew
the power card way, way early. Not a
calculated move but not the wrong one, either, at least, not as far as the day
has revealed so far.
“Get out of my room,” he barked.
I looked at him with as much blasé as I could muster.
“I’m getting dressed to go.
Get out.”
Out I went.
He came downstairs. He kissed me, I kissed him, and he headed off. On his way out the door, I told him I was
proud of him. I am. I always am, even when I say the words, "I'm
disappointed."
Sidebar: the whole reason I’m even bothering to write
this is that his behavior is soooo not like him. My son is, without exception, the most easy-going
person I know. But for the last 2 weeks,
this one-word-answering creature that is living with me looks like my son but
doesn’t really seem to be him at all. Is
this temporary? I think so, I want to
know so. But how long will this last,
and, more importantly, what am I supposed to be doing about it?
Is railing
against it and causing a tension against which he fights part of the required
dynamic? Am I supposed to ignore it and
roll with it? Based on my history as a
verbal abuse survivor, that is not going to fly. Do I try to reason with him? How do you reason with someone who looks at
you like you’re crazy for even bothering to try to talk with him about “what’s
wrong” when he has just told you there is nothing wrong?
Anyway, he comes back from the test center at about noon. He starts making lunch. I say, “Rachel (she came home for the first
time since school started in August) and I thought we could all eat
together.” He sighs and pauses. I start to make the lunch of leftovers from
the diner dinner we had last night. They
argue needlessly over both wanting some of the pasta. We sit down at the dining room table. They start mocking me, a
new game they’ve decided on for the weekend.
It’s the mom-is-not-with-it show.
It’s the 4th time in a row.
I ask them to stop. They
don’t. I get up to leave, saying I’ll
eat when they’re done. They ask me to
come back. I do. He takes his plate to leave the table. I say, “And now you’re leaving.” He says, “I’m just taking away my [expletive]
plate.” I snap. I toss a few expletives
at him about his attitude, doing a fine job of modeling exactly what I’m
complaining about. [Good move Niki, good move.]
Off he goes. Rachel and I make
light conversation. She cleans up. I go to put more medicine in my ear (ear
infection, oh more joy). She goes off to
shower. He’s still upstairs by himself.
Just now, 45 minutes after all the leaving and expletives, he wanders
downstairs, sees me in my chair, and walks out the front door. He comes back a minute later, hovers at the
door to the room I’m in.
“Are we still fighting?” I ask.
“ I don’t know,” is his response.
We exchange a few calm sentences.
I say I’m not trying to upset him but that he’s not been himself for 2
weeks. He seems to consider this but has
no reply. I don’t push for one because
it’s clear he can’t articulate what’s bugging him even if he did know, which I
don’t think he does.
But I know what’s bugging him, at least in part, because I’m feeling it’s
polar opposite. He wants to go. He wants to be done with high school. He wants to be on with his life and he
doesn’t want to wade through the next 7 months and then 2 more. Seven months of being a young man but
technically being a kid until he turns 18 in April. Two more months after that of playing by a
set of rules that no longer seem to apply.
High school, high school, high school.
A life dictated by high school rules when you’re really ready to get out
there and be a man.
And your mother, whom you genuinely love, is the in-your-face symbol
of everything that’s holding you back.
Twenty-five or so years ago, way before I even thought of having
children, one of my friends told me that you should never rush even a single
day of your children’s lives, never wish them to the next phase, because the
day they become grown-ups comes way too fast.
So once I became a mom, no matter what Rachel and/or Wil were doing at
any given time, I took her advice; I worked to find a good thing in whatever
pain we were navigating at the time. No
matter what, I never wished a day away or tried to rush the moments that make
up the years.
So Wil, I’m sorry that I can’t join you in wishing away the next 9
months. I didn’t do it for the 9 months
you were growing inside of me, and I can’t do it in the 9 months you’re going
to be using to push yourself out into the world and off to college. I'll do my best to help you however I can, but I can't wish the time away because I'm trying so very hard to make the time slow down. I know you'll be off to college in the blink of an eye. And seeing you go will make me so proud and so sad in very equal measures.
All my love, Mom
P.S. He circled back to share
some “mods” for Cry of Fear, a video
game. The storm has passed, at least for
now.
