With adolescence comes the need to figure out yourself…who you are…do you fit in. Normal. Completely normal. Yes, even for the most well adjusted child raised with all the love. Perfectly normal.
And so we enter this phase of this favorite son’s life which leads to some very interesting conversations lately. Some answers are easy thanks to his own NICU records mom was privy to. Some, but not all. Why is his brown hair so fine and curly and so damn unruly? Will he go bald like Dad? His biological mother was Russian but what about his biological father? He looks in the mirror and although he knows he is our son and his sisters’ brother, he is not certain where the face that looks back at him comes from. He wants answers and he is not willing to wait four more years to see if he can get those answers; because odds are high he likely won’t get those questions answered by the ones who made him.
Answers to some questions are here, in his DNA. Answers he will likely discover in a couple of months. Answers that with his mom and his dad, he looks forward to discovering.
And you thought the sex talk with kids was hard.
When he looks in the mirror, we want our son to know himself. It’s hard to face the world when you don’t know where your face came from.—Adoptive Parent
There are some things a fifty-something mom should never, ever do…according to her fourteen year old son.
:::spoken with literally no rhythm just like a middle aged mom:::
How does a bastard orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot in the Caribbean by providence impoverished, in squalor grow up to be a hero and a scholar?
The ten-dollar founding father without a father got a lot smarter by being a self=starter…
Mom! Oh gawd, Mom! No! Stop!
What, son? Hamilton’s my jam.
No, Mom. No.
Perhaps he’s right. Still, it’s nice to know that I can still mortify my teenaged child just by being me…as any good parent of a teen does.
While we can not agree if his 54 year old mom is able to spin a verse or two from Hamilton, we both can agree that rap is the language of the Revolution and the debates that helped to shape our nation…and yes, makes The Federalist Papers something cool that a teenaged student would want to study.
It’s even better on stage at the Richard Rogers Theater. Perhaps I will let Leslie Odom Jr. and the cast of Hamilton tell the story. But right now it is still my jam.
Yes, Daniel rolled his eyes as I said that.
Literally, for the first time since February 2005, we have only ONE teenager living here under The Big Top.
Of course that means that this one is now TWENTY years old.
This child of mine.
Happy birthday our darling Jodie Grace Wynonna.
In a few days I will FINALLY be the mother of only one teenager! Words can’t describe the flood of relief that comes with that statement. Of course having four adult children trying to do adulting kinds of things brings a whole new set of worries because I’ve been there and yes, done that…and that…and that…and that too.The attempt to restrain myself sometimes is so damn hard. I hope these grown children of mine will come to realize this. I’m sure that they will. I did.
Meanwhile, I am enjoying this young teenaged son of mine. When he smiles at me and talks to me I indeed do come undone. Look at him, my son!
That hair though!
Okay, not everything can be perfect at this age.
Still there are moments where I find my heart so full when he is sharing with me his thoughts, feelings and observations.
Pride is not the word I’m looking for.
Confession: I was listening to the Hamilton soundtrack before I sat down to write this.
Lately I am more than aware of the man this son of mine is becoming. I literally have never, ever known someone who is so kind and so fair to all. When he was but a one pound baby fighting as only micro preemies fight, I was aware how strong his heart was then, as I am always cognizant of with every mighty, tiny baby I care for. But lately I am all the more aware of just how mighty his heart is.
He makes me want to try harder to be a better person…a person like him, my son. How lucky I am to bask in his warm presence that, yes, outshines the morning sun. Added bonus, he calls me mom.
That hair though!
It’s Tuesday y’all.
And today, Tuesday, I am struck with the fact that he’s not a little boy anymore. Truth be told, practically every day there is something that makes it clear that he is a more and more a young man.
The slouched, eyes forward, early morning exhaustion that is his posture as I take him to school.
The shadow of a mustache…YES, a mustache.
The moment, during a Target run, when he told me that he might need some deodorant because teenagers need it sometimes…sometimes? Heh.
And as we have been working on the Downsize The Big Top project, how he actually has been doing just that. Downsizing his things.
Well…except for all the Legos and the Hot Wheels. That pile in the picture above? Those are the donate and it is a very small pile. Those are part of the toys-for-little-kids-and-I-am-not-a-little-kid-anymore pile to be donated. He made that pile. The rest are now mostly separated and stored now in several Rubbermaid containers.
Save for a few to be displayed, admired which is not a kid thing at all.
When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I pit away all of my childish things…yeah, well almost.