My 9-year-old son, Jake, recently munched on a booger right in front of me. With a grin, he declared, “Mmmmm.”
We were in the backyard, tackling some weeds because my partner, Sam, had asked for help, and Jake surprisingly volunteered. It’s not every day he’s eager to pull weeds or spend time with me.
The truth is, we both have our moments of embarrassment. I see him as this scruffy little boy I want to hug but can’t, while he views me as that overly affectionate dad in a polo and cargo shorts, whose advice on hygiene and style is, well, outdated. I can’t help but wonder how I’ll transform this booger-eating, messy-haired kid into a respectable young man.
I said to Jake, “You know, one day you’ll eat a booger in front of someone special, and they’re going to call you disgusting. You’ll think they’re adorable, and it’ll crush your spirit so much that you’ll never do it again.”
He rolled his eyes—classic Jake—like I was handing out life advice from the stone age. We resumed our weeding in silence, and I pondered how many times he had eaten a booger around other kids. A wave of shame washed over me, making me question if I was failing as a parent.
Then, out of the blue, Jake asked, “Did you ever eat a booger in front of Mom?”
I chuckled. “Nope. I left that phase behind way before meeting your mother. She’d have been mortified. So would I.” Then, I took a leap and asked a question that had been on my mind. “Do I embarrass you?”
Jake paused, shoving his hands into his pockets and kicking at the dirt behind him. “Only when you hug me in front of my friends.”
I had a hunch about this already. Not too long ago, I dropped him off at school, and he sprinted out of the car, trying to dodge my hug as if it were a charging bull. Part of me wished he’d have a near miss with traffic—not really hurt, just enough to make him understand that avoiding a dad hug could lead to danger. But thankfully, nothing happened. I just stopped hugging him in public; my desperation as a father was becoming painfully clear.
I didn’t want him running into traffic again—it freaked me out. Over the past year, I’d gradually stopped doing many things around him in public. No more hand-holding, no kisses, and no comments on his hair that looked like half of Wolverine’s haircut. I kept my suggestions about his appearance and my affection confined to our home.
“I kinda knew that,” I admitted. “But I don’t get why.”
Jake didn’t launch into a big speech about how his friends teased him; he just shrugged. So, I said what I had already decided. “Alright, I won’t hug you in front of your friends anymore. Cool?”
His relieved smile hit me like a ton of bricks. It felt like a piece of his childhood was slipping away. I instinctively reached for comfort. “You still love me, right?”
Jake glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Then he gave me a quick hug. As he pulled away, I held on for just a moment longer, trying to soak in every bit of little boy I had known for so long. When we separated, he shot me a side-eyed look that screamed, “Dad, not again.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. He half-smiled, and we resumed our weeding task.
And I guess this is the journey of parenting a preteen. As they transition from one stage to another, they begin to pull away, and their displays of affection fade into the shadows because, let’s face it—parents are downright embarrassing. Yet, as all parents know, getting even a quick hug from your child, preteen or not, feels special—even if it happens in the backyard when no one else is around.
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Summary
This lighthearted piece explores the inevitable embarrassment parents and children inflict on each other, particularly as kids transition into preteen years. The author reflects on moments shared with his son, Jake, as they navigate the challenges of growing up, including the delicate balance of affection and independence. Ultimately, the article underscores the bittersweet nature of parenting as children begin to distance themselves yet still crave connection.