His voice hasn’t fully transformed yet, but I can sense the changes creeping in, like a train approaching from afar. There’s a rough quality to it now, especially when I nudge him awake and hear his sleepy, “Morning, Mom.” These days, he’s not the eager early riser he used to be.
Welcome to 13.
I don’t feel old enough to have a teenage son—didn’t I just finish high school a couple of years ago? Yet here we are, both of us stepping into unknown territory, reminiscent of when he first entered this world. It feels both strange and strangely familiar: the shift in dynamics and the uncomfortable realization that there’s no manual to guide us through this phase.
Now, his door closes and locks, a barrier to the rest of us, who are no longer allowed in without a formal request. I find myself torn. Should I accept his need for privacy, or should I worry about how he’s using it? Is he seeking solitude for self-discovery, or is he hiding something more concerning, like revealing personal information to older strangers online? I’ve read the alarming stories—the parents who say, “We had no idea.” I hope I’m overreacting, but I’m constantly caught between respecting his privacy and wanting to protect him from potential dangers.
This is 13. It’s difficult to let go.
He’s messy, and he seems indifferent. I find myself constantly asking: When did you last wash your hair? When did you last brush your teeth? Go trim your toenails! As a baby, I would bury my face in his hair, savoring the sweet scent. Now, I catch a whiff and recoil, but I can’t just scoop him up and force him into the bath like I used to. Instead, I offer him deodorant and a new toothpaste like they’re treasures, and he reacts as any kid does when presented with such “gifts.”
His desk and every available surface in his room are cluttered with crumbs and dirty dishes, while his floor is a mountain of laundry that hasn’t made it to the hamper. I can’t understand how he copes with the chaos, but it’s time to allow him more autonomy over his space. When I ask how long he’s been wearing those same underwear, he casually replies, “Like four days?” with a hint of pride, as if it’s some sort of badge of honor.
This is 13, and it has its own unique scent.
He still enjoys cartoons, but they’re the more mature ones that you wouldn’t find on Nickelodeon anymore. He’s into video games, too, but they come with a hefty price tag. I can no longer pick out his outfits; his version of “dressing up” involves non-holey pants paired with a t-shirt featuring a poop emoji. His shoes are nearly as big as mine, and I can see him starting to bulk up, the once spindly limbs beginning to fill out.
Suddenly, his pants are too short, even though I just bought them. He devours food like it’s his lifeline (“Mom, can you grab some Lucky Charms, ramen noodles, and chili lime Takis?”), prompting another trip to the grocery store for new pants and snacks. Again.
This is 13. It’s incredibly costly.
Thirteen is like trying to hold onto a fish underwater, knowing that eventually, you’ll have to release it. It’s the weight of uncertainty about how much freedom to grant. It’s the pride in witnessing the emergence of his independence mixed with the bittersweet realization that he’s becoming his own person.
For now, he’s still affectionate, and I cherish each hug and the diminishing moments of snuggling, fully aware they may not last much longer. I can still feel the memory of him as a baby nestled against my chest, a ghost of a little boy who once was. I’ll continue to tousle his hair and touch his cheek, no matter how much he grows. I must. As his mother, I know that in my eyes, he’ll always be my little boy, even as he transitions to manhood.
“You’re the best mom,” he tells me when he’s not declaring me the worst. His voice has dropped a bit more since last week. I hear that train approaching, and all I can do is step back and let it pass.
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Summary
The experience of having a thirteen-year-old son is filled with challenges, such as navigating privacy, witnessing his independence, and adapting to the changes that come with adolescence. Despite the struggles, the bond remains strong, and the memories of his early years linger, reminding us that he will always be our child.