My 11-year-old son, Daniel, is sprawled on the couch with a plate of tater tots precariously balanced on his knees. He’s donned his well-worn Giants hoodie—the one he bought with his own cash after their second World Series win, before we relocated from the Bay Area to Central California, where kids his age might just as easily root for the Dodgers or the A’s. He’s stuffing his face with tater tots, laughing uproariously at something from his current favorite show, Fresh Off the Boat, while absentmindedly scratching the dog’s ears.
Nearby, his 9-year-old brother, Ben, is lounging on a dog bed, chuckling at something entirely different. Ben’s obliviousness to the subtleties of humor marks one of the many differences between him and Daniel, who is on the brink of leaving childhood behind.
Here we are, both stuck in a transitional phase. I’m 35, still clinging to the mindset of my 18-year-old self, reinventing my identity after an unexpected return to the city I grew up in. Daniel, at 11, is caught in the liminal space between being a child and a teenager. He craves everything immediately, and we often stumble through this awkward phase together in a clumsy, yet relatable manner. Our moods clash more often than I’d like to admit.
“Mom! Mom!” Daniel calls out, pulling me away from my computer where I’m trying to juggle deadlines and help Ben with his “family project” due the next day. My mother is coming over to babysit, and I’m feeling the pressure.
“What? Is this urgent?” I ask, trying to gauge the situation.
“This new computer I want is only—”
“No.” I’m exhausted by this conversation. Sometimes it’s an iPhone he desires, but the ever-growing list of things he wants—without recognizing how fortunate he is—seems endless.
He recently lost access to his current computer for chatting with strangers online without permission. Seriously, he was simply trying to discuss computer hardware with someone from a Dell service team.
He refuses to order off the kids’ menu at a restaurant but ends up leaving half his burrito uneaten. He won’t take leftovers to school because he lost his lunch box and feels embarrassed about using a brown bag—“People laughed at me last time and said we must be poor.” I roll my eyes, a frequent reaction these days, yet he does the same.
The moments when we connect don’t come as easily as they did during his toddler years when a stack of books or a Berenstain Bears episode could steal a few precious moments together. Ben still cuddles up for a story, but Daniel prefers to retreat to his room with his own book.
We’re in the car, killing time while waiting for Ben to finish swim practice. I’m listening to a podcast that has been a source of laughter during our move. Daniel is engrossed in a book, but when I hear a familiar U2 song, I think he might appreciate it. I pop out my headphones and play the podcast through the car speakers. We share a laugh over ridiculous song snippets, and when the Cheers theme song plays, we’re both in stitches. Ben hops in, asking what’s so funny, and we just grin.
Middle school is on the horizon. Sixth grade has barely started, and they’re already touring schools. Daniel comes home buzzing with excitement about the STEM middle school, which offers courses in app development and architecture. Admissions are tough, and while we know he’s bright, his laziness often gets in the way. He was even booted from the advanced reading group for not wanting to engage.
After speaking with his teacher, who surprisingly suggests the STEM school, we tell Daniel he must work hard to get in. My husband and I exchange worried glances, considering if he has the grades to qualify, even though it seems like a perfect fit.
Halloween rolls around, and he initially refuses to dress up but changes his mind at the last minute, throwing on his Giants hoodie and using my eyeliner to scribble “2014” on his cheek. His costume might be half-hearted, but his team’s recent World Series win makes it forgivable.
Against the odds, he gets into the STEM school! We celebrate with sushi and high-fives, and for a moment, he walks a little taller, soaking in the attention from friends and family.
But then reality hits. He lands a D in History for not completing an assignment and half-heartedly tackles his chores. He complains about a classmate, teetering on the edge of bullying, prompting us to intervene. He’s prone to tantrums when asked to take out the trash and tries to wear the same t-shirt for three days. Yet, he’s still the kid who helps his toddler cousin with Legos, cooks spaghetti and meatballs, and runs errands for me. He still sleeps with the stuffed bunny from his first Easter.
Spring arrives, and with it, track season. My boys come home buzzing with news and shoe requests. Daniel insists I stay away from practices. “Do not come, Mom,” he orders. I show up anyway. Watching him run with grace and speed, I’m amazed. His coach remarks on his natural talent, and when I mention Daniel’s laziness, he assures me it’s a common trait among kids.
Later that night, Daniel surprises me by asking for a hug. This is a rarity. He’s grown so much that I can no longer rest my chin on his head. As I pull him in, he thanks me for attending practice, and I ask if he wants me to help again. “Yes,” he replies.
As a U2 song plays, tears fill my eyes before Bono even sings the lyrics: “Baby slow down. The end is not as fun as the start.”
Sometimes, the conclusion—or the beginning of the end—is more enjoyable than the start, but it’s never as carefree as those earlier days. I often find myself longing for moments that have passed, feeling a bit bitter about choices I made along the way. I understand that life is about sacrifices, and while hard work may yield some of what you want, it’s a lesson I don’t want Daniel to learn just yet.
I want him to slow down, even if that’s not what 11-year-old boys do. So I do. I take a moment to appreciate this awkward yet beautiful middle space that we’re navigating together.
Summary
This piece reflects on the bittersweet journey of parenting an 11-year-old boy, Daniel, as he transitions from childhood to adolescence. The author shares amusing anecdotes and heartfelt moments, highlighting the challenges and joys of navigating this awkward phase. Through laughter, frustrations, and small victories, the author wishes for Daniel to slow down and savor these fleeting moments of youth.