“Mom, there’s an issue,” my newly minted twelve-year-old, Jake, declares as he plops down on the couch, interrupting a rare moment of peace while I indulge in a book. I can’t help but think that this better be good.
I glance at his tousled hair, clothes stained from a day at basketball camp, and face gleaming with sweat and sunblock. “Is it that you really need a shower?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Come on, Mom,” he replies, flashing that familiar goofy grin. “No. I’m just bored.”
Well, there it is.
“Should I mention the shower again?” I inquire, half-joking.
“Later,” he responds, absentmindedly twirling his hair with his fingers.
Oh, my little one is tired. This simple gesture pulls at my heartstrings and transports me back a decade. I can picture him as a toddler, nestled in his crib, fingers twirling his hair as he drifts off to sleep. I remember sneaking glances at him at nursery school, watching him nod off on the camp bus, and seeing him at breakfast after a late night. I’ve told him countless times to stop because he’d end up with knots, but somehow he grew up, and I nearly forgot this subtle cue that signaled it was time for bed. It’s so sweet.
I can’t help but smile, grateful for this interruption to my solitude. My husband and younger son are off at a baseball game, and I chose to stay home with Jake, who has been out almost every night this week. These moments of quiet are rare; life is usually a whirlwind.
“So, how was camp?” I start, even though I already asked earlier and received the usual blank stare followed by a half-hearted “fine.” Now, however, he opens up, sharing stories about his day, his birthday, and his last baseball game, all while twirling his hair.
I soak it all in and gently remind him, “You’re tired, kiddo.”
“There’s an issue,” he continues, lifting his feet onto my lap. “I need a snack.”
Even through his socks, I can smell them. “Oh, there’s definitely a problem,” I agree, playfully pushing his feet off my legs. “Go take a shower.” He reluctantly rises but pauses to lean down for a hug—a warm, slightly sticky embrace.
I watch him retreat, his nearly adult frame reminding me how far he’s come from that little crib dweller. Yet, there’s still a trace of baby left in him. Just like every milestone, this transition to adolescence is a bittersweet journey. I treasure watching him develop physically, mentally, and socially, but with every step he takes and every inch he grows, I feel another piece of my baby slip away.
I hear the shower turn on upstairs. After he cleans up, he’ll likely retreat to his room to read or play on his phone. He’s increasingly spending time away, absorbed in friends, school, sports, and life. Setting my book aside, I rise to slice him an apple, carefully peeling it just the way he likes.
It’s not a problem.
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In summary, these fleeting moments with my preteen son are precious reminders of his childhood, even as he grows more independent. Balancing my need for quiet with the joy of his company is a delightful challenge.