Brooding teens and contemplating empty rooms

Pumpkin art and photo by Jeri Schoenberger

This past weekend, M asked me if we could spend a day decorating for Halloween. We planned to get the decorations out of the basement, assess what we had, head out to get some new skeletons or skulls or other scary things to hang from the trees (nothing cute…that doesn’t work with teenage boys), and pick up some pumpkins to carve. I had planned to do several other things that day, but was thrilled at the request to spend time together. We agreed to get going as soon as possible on Sunday morning.

M was up by 8 am and soon after, we headed down to the basement to find the decorations. It proved harder than either of us anticipated as my husband, D, had done some rearranging. Unfortunately, the few minutes we spent unsuccessfully searching for the bins were enough to set a hungry and probably tired M into a dark cloud of non-communicative and brooding teenage boy space. I mustered up all the cheeriness I could (if you know me, you know morning is not my forte), texted D who was away for the weekend to ask where the decorations might be, and asked the all-important questions I should’ve asked prior to the basement excursion: Had M eaten anything? The answer was an irritated no. I ran through all the usual weekend breakfast foods only to be met with a steady stream of nos. So, upon getting the text from D with some suggestions, I changed my Crocs for sneakers and headed into the depths of the basement, quickly finding the two Halloween bins.

Of course, by this point, whatever was in those bins was not going to live up to M’s expectations. I did a cursory look through and then suggested we head out, asking if M wanted to stop at a bagel shop for breakfast. He agreed to a breakfast sandwich and I thought I only needed to hang on until the food did its magic trick on his mood. Of course, we arrived at the bagel shop to a line curving around and almost out the door. Often, this would immediately deter M and he would insist we leave. But he said nothing, so we took our place in line and waited. And waited. And waited. It probably took 20 or so minutes before our order was taken and another five before the food was ready. Very few words were exchanged during that time, just me prompting him to decide what he wanted, affirming that he did not want anything to drink.

We left and got in the car. I already felt relieved, sure the day would pick up from here. Before we left the parking lot, I asked him if he wanted to try the Spirit Halloween store. No reply. I looked it up on my phone and headed in the direction of the nearest one, sure that once the food started to digest, the sourness would sweeten and I’d have an agreeable, if not pleasant, companion.

He seemed to perk up a bit and was at least willing as we walked into Spirit Halloween. He started talking about a Walter White mask he had been looking for online and had not been able to find in stock. He picked up a fake sword and asked me if I agreed that one always needed to have a fake weapon on hand for Halloween. I thought we had made it through the stormy teen mood. But I must have asked too many questions or not had the right suggestion or the store didn’t have something he had decided he wanted…or who even knows. Because suddenly, just like that, the mood darkened and he was putting the sword back, insistent he didn’t want it. I asked about a few more items, if he was looking for something specific, and just got the irritated no chorus again. We headed back to the car. I was determined to salvage the day. We headed to Home Depot and were greeted with an enormous Christmas display. It was October 15. We found the small, well-picked-over Halloween section. Nothing appealing.

Things were just barreling down hill at this point.

One more try, I thought, and headed off to Lowes.

Amazingly, in their tiny Halloween section, M found a skeleton. No words, no checking if he could get it. He just took it off the shelf and hung on to it. I grabbed some purple and orange lights, and the day took a slight turn upward. We chatted on the way home, M intent on finding something in the car that could cut through the plastic that bound the skeleton’s legs to his arms. I asked where he wanted to get pumpkins, naming a few places on our way home. Wrong question. Again. He told me he didn’t feel like getting pumpkins. So we headed home and I knew even before I asked that any decorating would be a solo event for me.

I am sure you know what happened next. M headed up to the house, carrying his skeleton. I took the lights in to the basement, where I sat on the basement stairs and cried. I was saddened by the sourness, the silence, the vision of a day together gone now. But mostly, I was sad because

This. Is. It.

The pulling away, the separation, the independence. I’ve been through it twice before, and I know what comes after this. That the interest in spending a day with me will be less and less. M watched the way L pulled away. So hard, so fiercely, it sometimes felt like I would snap. M promised me with the earnestness of a child who has yet to feel the confusing wash of hormones that adolescence brings, that he would never pull away. Though I knew he would, his closeness, his snuggling in made his brothers’ distance easier to take. I still had one child in my house who found Mom comforting instead of a source of endless embarrassment.

M still likes me to tuck him at night. He still hugs me goodbye every morning when he leaves for school. He thanks us for making dinner most nights. He has come with me every time I have gone up to see Z at college. He is a homebody and only recently has he retreated to his room most of the time. He used to be my companion for shows like School of Chocolate or Blown Away. Like any parent with multiple children, I worry that as the youngest, he missed out on being little because he had older brothers constantly rushing him along, naming his interests “babyish” or “stupid,” despite my constant admonishments. I worry that he felt too much pressure to do things beyond his abilities because he saw his brothers performing at higher levels than he was, because they were older and had more experience and skill.

While he has the benefit of a well-worn mother, who knows these teenage tempests are not personal but developmental, he is also the last. So these transitions feel harder in a different way. I know better what to expect as he makes these transitions, but I also know this the last time I will experience these stages.

This is a hard time in life. Before I had children, there were so many goals to reach, so many things to work toward—building my relationship, continuing my education to become a psychologist, planning a wedding, buying a house, starting a career. Once the boys were born, they became the center of our world. D and I organized our lives around these precious children. Our community filled quickly with people who were also raising children. Friday nights were pizza and Pixar movies. I often fell asleep next to a toddler or a boy who couldn’t sleep and needed Mama there. We didn’t have family near us, so nights out without our children were few and far between when they were young. And expensive. Instead, we took them camping, skiing, hiking, swimming, to every playground and Audubon property we could find. We brought them to Ok Go and Owl City concerts. We took them to theater rehearsals; soccer and baseball practice; voice, violin, and piano lessons; and orchestra rehearsals. We didn’t miss a performance or game or concert. We told them how much we enjoyed watching them do something they loved.

And how much we loved them.

How very much we love them.

L will graduate from high school in just under three years, M in five. We have time left. But with each year, each season, they pull further away, need less from us, more from their friends. So these days, when that pull is there, I try to remind myself how grateful I am for their presence. That this is the life I wanted, the life I built. And I can hold on to this moment, be present with whatever is offered, because unlike earlier, I know it’s all going to change.

Soon, the one empty bedroom will be two.

And then three.

There’s been blessings and crooked roads
I’ve made mistakes that I regret
But I’ve held dreams in my own hands
Too big to dream in my own head
And all the love that I’ve been given
Wish I could return tenfold at least
Cause there isn’t one ungrateful bone in my body

Grateful by Lori McKenna

All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.