“Mom, I need to talk,” my newly turned 12-year-old says, crashing onto the couch beside me and disrupting a rare moment of peace while I’m engrossed in my book. This better be worthwhile, I think.
I glance up at his messy hair, clothes stained from a day at basketball camp, and a face slick with sweat and sunscreen. “Is it that you urgently need a shower?”
“Come on, Mom,” he replies, flashing that charming grin. “No. I’m just bored.”
Well, that’s news.
“Should I mention the shower again?” I ask teasingly.
“Later,” he says, absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair around his finger.
Ah, my little one is worn out. This small gesture tugs at my heartstrings, sending me back in time. I can picture him as a toddler, comforting himself to sleep with his fingers entwined in his hair. I recall those nursery school days, sneaking glances at him drowsy after a long day, or those late-night moments when he’d be fighting sleep at the breakfast table. I see him a thousand times, his eyes growing heavy, fingers spinning round and round.
Over the years, I’ve told him countless times to stop twisting his hair because it creates knots, but he never did… until he outgrew the habit. I almost forgot this little sign that used to signal it was time for bed. It’s so sweet to reminisce.
I can’t help but smile, grateful for this unexpected interruption during my solitary moment to share this special time with him. My husband and our middle child are off to a baseball game, and I’ve chosen to skip the 8:30 p.m. match — yes, 8:30 p.m. for a 9-year-old — to stay home with our other boys who have been out almost every night this week. It’s rare to have such tranquility these days; life has become a constant rush.
“So, how was camp?” I ask, even though I’d already asked him earlier and received the usual blank stare followed by a reluctant “fine.” But now, he starts to open up, sharing stories about his day, his birthday, and his last baseball game — all while twisting his hair.
I soak it in, then say, “You’re tired, sweetheart.”
“There’s another issue,” he continues, lifting his feet onto my lap. “I need a snack.”
Even through his socks, the scent isn’t pleasant. “Oh, there’s definitely a problem there,” I chuckle, nudging his feet off. “Go shower now.” He slowly rises but pauses to lean down for a hug, a warm, somewhat greasy embrace.
Watching his gangly preteen body retreat, I realize how far he’s come from that tiny boy in the crib, yet there’s still a hint of baby left in him. This transition into adolescence is bittersweet; I adore witnessing his physical, mental, and social growth, but with each milestone, I lose a little piece of my baby.
I hear the shower start upstairs. Afterward, he’ll likely retreat to his room to either read or scroll through his phone. He’s becoming increasingly elusive these days, absorbed in friends, school, sports, and life.
Putting down my book, I get up to slice him an apple, peeling the skin just as he prefers. It’s not a problem at all.
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In summary, while the chaos of parenting a tween can be overwhelming, it’s those brief moments of connection that remind us of the love and growth happening amidst the busyness.
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