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“I’m melting! Where the heck is Dad?!” my 17-year-old son, Alex, exclaimed as we left the campus bookstore, searching for my husband, who had seemingly disappeared.
“Did you not see him?” I asked carefully, trying to tread lightly on the emotional turmoil that had stirred in him that morning.
“No, I didn’t!” he snapped back, “This heat is unbearable!”
“Why don’t you step outside and cool off, honey?” I suggested in my most soothing motherly voice. By the second day of our college visit, he was already feeling anxious and frustrated.
“No, I don’t want to,” he replied sharply. Of course, he didn’t, I thought. Why would he want to make life easier for himself? Sigh. My younger son, Max, had been a handful since he was two, nearly getting expelled from preschool for butting heads with classmates and even pushing teachers.
As a mom, my instincts kicked in, and I felt the urge to guide him, to protect him from his less favorable traits. So, I continued, “I just want you to be able to get past little annoyances and focus on the good stuff. We’re at your favorite school. We just toured the campus, and we got you some awesome gear.” I had to slip in, “Your dad and I are making sacrifices for you to have this opportunity, so a little positivity would be nice.”
Silence filled the air. That last comment must have struck a nerve with his self-absorbed teenage mind. After all, he was my fiery kid. The daycare director had once said he would be a “community leader if only he could channel his energy positively.”
“Well, when you get hot in a store, you always say, ‘I need to get out of here, I’m boiling!’” he shot back. “How is that any different from my complaining?!”
I took the bait. “Okay, I had a hot flash in the bookstore, but you didn’t hear me whining about it, did you?” I replied defensively. Perhaps we were more alike than I cared to admit.
My husband, ever the peacekeeper, attempted to defend me, saying, “Well, your mother’s situation is a bit different…”
“How?!” Alex asked sarcastically. “Seriously, how?!” He went on to point out how I let minor things bother me, just as he did. He was right. We were cut from the same cloth. Perhaps that’s why I clashed with him in arguments while my husband remained calm.
I was a glass-half-empty person, letting little things get under my skin when I was younger. Yet, as I grew older, I worked hard to shift my mindset towards positivity. But I knew he hadn’t. I felt responsible for that. He expected everything to be perfect, and I had inadvertently set that expectation. As my second child, we catered to his whims. He didn’t want to eat what his older brother ate? I would whip up a special meal. He wanted cold water instead of the warm water his brother drank? Sure thing! He didn’t want to learn how to do his laundry? No problem, I’d take care of it for him. He didn’t want to clean his sink? I would handle that too.
With both of my boys, I had made them the center of my universe because I had never experienced that growing up. Alcoholism and mental illness had pushed me out of that role. Yet, I was determined to make them my priority, and I did. But I worried that I had gone overboard with Alex. I routinely catered to his picky taste buds, serving his favorite microwave chicken nuggets and fries. No oven-baked options for him. I cooked fresh meals most nights, knowing he despised leftovers. I even fought for him to attend an out-of-state school, despite our agreement to keep the kids local for financial reasons.
“Look, buddy, I just wish you had some coping skills to deal with the little stuff,” I said as we stepped out of the store, my face flushed from yet another hot flash. I was grateful for the fresh breeze and shade from the trees.
“Oh, sure,” he replied, never one to elaborate more than necessary. “Sometimes you just annoy me.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes you annoy me too,” I chuckled lightly, hoping to ease the tension. “That’s family life—we can annoy each other, but we still love one another.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he replied, his mind clearly elsewhere.
We headed towards the field house for the final stop on our trip. I wiped the sweat off my brow and pondered why I felt so on edge. Then it hit me: unlike his older brother, Alex didn’t seem to enjoy spending time with my husband and me. He appeared to thrive on his independence, choosing a school 11 hours away by car. Maybe that was intentional? What if this choice meant he would stay there forever? What if he didn’t want to come back home? My greatest fears were coming to life with each step I took towards letting him go.
But that’s just part of life, right? You do your best for your children, then you have to step back. It’s not easy, and you certainly don’t sign up for the heartache. Yet, you keep moving forward, hoping that one day, he’ll choose to return to you.
For more insights on parenting and independence, check out this blog post here. And for expert advice on home insemination, visit Make a Mom. If you’re interested in resources about pregnancy, March of Dimes has excellent information.
Summary
Letting go of your child as they seek independence can be a daunting experience for any parent. As children grow into their teenage years, they often crave autonomy, which can lead to tension in family relationships. This article explores the struggles of a mother as she navigates her son’s desire for independence, reflecting on her own parenting methods and the impact of her upbringing. While it’s natural to want to protect and guide your children, ultimately, allowing them the space to grow is essential. Parents can find comfort in knowing that these transitions are part of life, and with time, their children may return to them.
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