His voice hasn’t settled into that deep tone yet, but I can sense it lurking just beneath the surface, like a distant train approaching. It carries a gravelly undertone, particularly when he stirs awake and mutters, “Morning, Mom.” These days, he seems less eager to leap out of bed with the dawn, a stark contrast to his earlier enthusiasm.
Welcome to 13.
I often find myself questioning how I can possibly have a teenager – wasn’t it just yesterday I was in high school myself? Yet, here he is, my newly minted teen, so reminiscent of the baby he once was and yet so distinctly different. We’re both navigating new waters, akin to the day he first entered the world. The transition feels odd yet familiar: stepping into unfamiliar roles with the unsettling realization that there’s no manual for this journey.
His bedroom door now clicks shut, locking me out without notice. I find myself torn. Should I let him have his privacy, or should I intervene? I understand he needs space, but I can’t help but wonder how he’s using it. Is he exploring self-discovery, or is he hiding personal chats with older strangers online, or worse, engaging in questionable behaviors? The cautionary tales of parents who were blindsided by their teens’ struggles weigh heavily on my mind. I hope I’m overreacting, but the push and pull between respecting his privacy and my instinct to monitor him leaves me conflicted.
This is 13. It’s challenging to let go.
He’s become quite the messy teenager, showing little regard for cleanliness. I find myself nagging him about basic hygiene: “When did you last wash your hair? Brush your teeth? Get those toenails trimmed!” I used to bury my nose in his hair, savoring the sweet scent of his innocence. Now, when I catch a whiff, I recoil. I can’t simply scoop him up for a bath as I did back in the day. Instead, I offer deodorant and toothpaste as if they were treasures, only to be met with the same enthusiasm any kid has for such gifts.
His desk and nearly every surface in his room are cluttered with crumbs and half-eaten snacks, while his laundry piles up like a mountain. I can’t fathom how he tolerates the mess, yet I realize it’s time to grant him more control over his space. When I ask how long he’s been wearing those shorts, he casually replies, “Like four days?” I can sense a tinge of pride in his voice, as if it’s some sort of badge of honor.
This is 13, and it smells like teenage boy.
He still enjoys cartoons, though they’ve evolved into more “mature” fare, and his video games have graduated to pricier options. I can no longer choose his outfits; his idea of dressing up is simply donning a pair of decent pants with his favorite poop emoji shirt. His shoes are nearly my size now, and when he’s shirtless, I notice he’s starting to fill out, those once-gangly limbs transforming into a more solid frame.
Just like that, his pants are too short again, even though I just bought them last week. He devours food like it’s oxygen, constantly requesting snacks like Lucky Charms, ramen, and chili lime Takis. Off to the grocery store I go, yet again, to restock and grab those new pants.
This is 13. It’s incredibly pricey.
Thirteen feels like trying to hold onto a fish underwater, knowing you’ll eventually have to release it. It’s the challenge of figuring out how much freedom to give while still maintaining a connection. It’s pride in witnessing the independent young man he’s becoming, coupled with the ache that comes with realizing he is indeed becoming independent.
For now, he still seeks affection, and I savor every hug and every snuggle, fully aware that these moments may dwindle soon. I can still feel him as a baby, sleeping peacefully on my chest, or nestled in my lap, like a fleeting memory of the little boy he once was. I’ll always ruffle his hair and touch his face, no matter how grown he becomes. After all, to a mother, manhood is merely an illusion. He’ll always be my baby, even if he’s not.
“You’re the best mom,” he tells me when he’s not calling me the worst. His voice seems a shade deeper than last week. I hear that train approaching, and all I can do is step back and let it pass.
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Summary
As my son turns 13, I navigate the complexities of his transition into teenage life. From his newfound independence and hygiene habits to the challenges of granting him privacy while worrying about his online activities, this stage is both exhilarating and daunting. Each moment of affection is cherished, knowing they may soon fade, as I come to terms with the fact that he will always be my little boy, no matter how grown he appears.
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