This weekend, I got up before sunrise. L was heading up to the mountains with ski club and had to be at school just as the sun appeared in the morning sky. He wasn’t awake yet and when I went in to rouse him, he looked surprised at the darkness outside. It was later than he had planned to wake up with just about 20 or so minutes to gather up everything he needed. I brought his skis down to the car while he got dressed. I poured coffee and a splash of cream into a commuter mug. He said he had slept through three alarms—something he rarely does. But it was early, and he had been out late last night with friends.
The rain from yesterday plus the above freezing temperatures that morning meant the car widows were dewy and visibility not great. But the sky was warm with the sun coming up and L was going to ski for the first—and last—time this season. I was excited for him. He has always been the kid most at home on a snowy, steep trail. He loves the challenge, the exhilaration, the rush of heading down a mountain at 30 or 40 mph, flying. And wrestling meant he hadn’t done it yet this year.
We pulled into the school parking lot and sat quietly, waiting for the school bus to pull in. L sipped his coffee, we laughed as I realized my visibility issue was less the condensation and more that in my precaffeinated fog, I hadn’t grabbed my glasses. Luckily, my prescription is light and I can see just fine to drive. It just looks a little blurry. L saw the bus pull in and got out of the car to get his skis, poles, and ski bag. I watched the bus, expecting to see him meet up with a friend and start walking toward it—my signal to drive away. So I was surprised when I heard a tapping on my window. It was L, motioning to me to roll down the window.
“Bye, Mom. Thanks for waking me up and driving me here.”
I told him to have fun, said that I loved him, and watched him catch up to his friend and head over to the bus.
Such a simple thing, really. A goodbye. A thank you. But these little moments of acknowledgment mean a lot coming from a 16 year old.
Figuring out how to parent this spirited teenager has been a challenge. I spent a lot of last summer and fall worrying and overthinking and stressing about how best to respond to a boy who has always loved to pushed the limits. Trying to figure out how to hold that tendency with his thoughtful and deeply sensitive side. He has asked so much more of me than his brothers have. He has pushed me to question why I set the boundary here and not further out. Why I worry about this and not that. And has always reminded me when my decisions are based on fear and not the boy I’ve raised. He has forced me to be consistent, thoughtful, and fair when it can be easier to rely on fear and what ifs and “this is what we’ve always done” laziness.
Somewhere in the past few months, we seem to have settled into a gentler, less fraught space. Sure, he continues to respond to my inquiries about how wrestling practice went with stingers such as “Your voice is so high pitched. I really can’t listen to you speak.” But he also generally acknowledges the things I do for him—like pick him and his friends up from the subway or give him $20 on a half day so he can walk downtown and get lunch. We have reached a mutual trust. He is going to push sometimes. His dad and I are going to push back. We will trust him until he shows us we shouldn’t. And he is going to continue to make mistakes. He is going to do things I might wish he wouldn’t. We talk about it when he does. And he is as honest as a boy like him can be.
He isn’t so different from the little boy he once was. The boy who would try to find ways around the rules. Who would needle his older brother until he snapped and then cry and try to shift the blame. Who would crawl up into my lap when I came home from work particularly stressed and put his chubby little hand on my cheek and say, “Belax, Mama. Just belax.”
I know there is more ahead. More questions, more not knowing what’s right, more worry. And I also have learned to trust that my L is in there. Always. I can’t listen to worry—my own or others—about what might happen. I have to look at what is right in front of me. Trust the 16 years D and I have put into raising this boy. Trust what we know about him. Trust what we have taught him. Trust him. Remember what I craved as a teenager—time with friends, away from adult eyes, space to feel freedom. Remember that mistakes are how we learn. And that he should feel the same adoration and love from me that he did when he was a child. He needs it just as much now as he did then.
Before the mountains call to you, before you leave this home,
I want to teach your heart to trust, as I will teach my own,
But sometimes I will ask the moon where it shined upon you last,
And shake my head and laugh and say it all went by too fast.
You'll fly away, but take my hand until that day. So when they ask how far love goes,
When my job's done you'll be the one who knows.
-Dar Williams