TO BOLDLY GO WHERE NO MOM
HAS GONE BEFORE
HAS GONE BEFORE
Explore, the final frontier.
These are the voyages of my son before manhood. Its teen years mission: To explore this strange world. To seek out a life and contribute to civilization. And for me: To boldly go where no Mom has gone before.
My son, now in eighth grade, has NOT been coming straight home from school and to call me at work once home. The ritual has changed without sports practice or library work, and, as would any mom, I became concerned. To study this phenomenon, and recognizing I did not wish to conduct a longitudinal study, I logged three days of this behavior to attempt a pattern. Not that teens are aliens, but the changes sometimes happen so fast you would think they zapped from a transporter or traded by a keen look-alike from Mars.
"I trust you" are my first words to my alien son. I say it again, loud, clear, serious, "I TRUST YOU." Now we have made eye contact. I continued, "but I have noticed that you are coming home from school at different times and thought I would let you know that I noticed and you might tell me what's going on." I pause, a pregnant pause, a million or more possibilities could follow, but in my impregnated prompt is the expectation of my understanding. As fleeting a feeling as it may be, I feel in control.
"I promised the guys I wouldn't tell." He says.
Another pregnant pause. Do I respect the code of the guys? If I trust my son, do I call him on this? Who are these guys, is he "hanging out" with new "guys"? I could say that I won't tell the guys you told me, as if I were not Mom but a buddy of some sort. I have never played a position other than Mom and now was not a time to experiment. I have so many questions, I observe his look, tone, pace and breath. But there is a strength in silence. He is calm, not sarcastic or scared, and still making eye contact. This is my son. I know my son, no alien blood in his veins.
AAaahhH, the code of "the guys" has been invoked like a get out of jail free card in monopoly or, more appropriately at this age – a blank hall pass. But I have something better, more powerful than a blank hall pass and I don't have to dig deep in my arsenal of Mom power to pull it out.
"Where ever you go, whatever you do, know I love you." I say in my Mom tone, hoping to make an echo that will sound to the after school place of the guys, to the future when I am not always so close and if the phrase gets mingled in memory that the "go" or "do" should transpose or drop, that his memory hears my loving voice, "I love you."
I soften my eyes, drop my shoulders, open my arms and hold the teen, that once was a boy who broke his arm on the monkey bars, once was a baby I breast fed – I hold his history in our joint memory, respecting amae, his sweet dependency on me. I just hold him soft and he rests his head on my breasts. I whisper once more, "I love you."
His eyes flash, a sneaky smirk emerges and he says, "if I show you, well, know one can know, Moms don't know about it, we don't allow girls, and we'll have to go early Saturday morning when no one else is there… do you want to go?"
Gosh! I'm being invited to explore a place where no Moms have gone before. I'll boldly go, so I matched his enthusiasm with a low, confidential, "yes!"
Saturday morning came, he couldn't wait till I had coffee, he did wait till I came out of the bathroom. He informed me I needed to wear gym shoes, long jeans and long sleeves. Apparently this strange new world required minimum skin exposure. He said his sister should stay home, so I told her of the undesirable errands of a Saturday morning routine and told her she did not have to go, she could watch cartoons with the dog. She didn't argue.
My son asked me to drive him to his school and park in back, I did. He showed me a path that did not look treacherous and might be a good place to take my miniature poodle, but as we progressed down the path I noted that we went a ways and now the school was out of sight. He gave me a tour, explaining how they leave their backpacks at the big oak tree and walk across the logs that fell across the creek. He told me how he was brave to climb this half dead tree and dared one of the other guys to try but would not. I realized we were no longer on a path but now walking through a creek bed and I am very afraid of snakes – and this is Texas! But I didn't want to miss his stories or prevent him from taking me to his destination. I felt so honored, to go where no mom has gone before!
We came to an open field with a single tree. We approached the tree and he showed me the secret hiding place of the sharpened paper clip as well as the carvings of four boy names on the tree, his name and three others. Boys I have watched grow over the years.
His explore, his path. Not the path I would have chose, I would not dare unearth snakes in a creek bed or chanced a fall on the slope of mud he had me traverse. But that is part of the boy enroute to manhood, exploring his way, making his own path, and even if I don't agree or think there is a better path – it is sometimes a hard position, to hold the mission of: I love you. Implied is "no matter what."
The route back from the carved tree was the same, through the bushes, atop leaves possibly hiding spiders, through the creek bed possibly hiding snakes, down a muddy slope I cling branches to avert a fall, and curving through woods that felt like we might have gone in a circle a few times to get back to the path suitable for my poodle, and then back to the parking lot to my vehicle. We were gone an hour and a half, well, in Mom time, and I was transported with guided tour and narration to explore and view his world. I am so honored.
These are the voyages of my son before manhood. Its teen years mission: To explore this strange world. To seek out a life and contribute to civilization. And for me: To boldly go where no Mom has gone before.
My son, now in eighth grade, has NOT been coming straight home from school and to call me at work once home. The ritual has changed without sports practice or library work, and, as would any mom, I became concerned. To study this phenomenon, and recognizing I did not wish to conduct a longitudinal study, I logged three days of this behavior to attempt a pattern. Not that teens are aliens, but the changes sometimes happen so fast you would think they zapped from a transporter or traded by a keen look-alike from Mars.
"I trust you" are my first words to my alien son. I say it again, loud, clear, serious, "I TRUST YOU." Now we have made eye contact. I continued, "but I have noticed that you are coming home from school at different times and thought I would let you know that I noticed and you might tell me what's going on." I pause, a pregnant pause, a million or more possibilities could follow, but in my impregnated prompt is the expectation of my understanding. As fleeting a feeling as it may be, I feel in control.
"I promised the guys I wouldn't tell." He says.
Another pregnant pause. Do I respect the code of the guys? If I trust my son, do I call him on this? Who are these guys, is he "hanging out" with new "guys"? I could say that I won't tell the guys you told me, as if I were not Mom but a buddy of some sort. I have never played a position other than Mom and now was not a time to experiment. I have so many questions, I observe his look, tone, pace and breath. But there is a strength in silence. He is calm, not sarcastic or scared, and still making eye contact. This is my son. I know my son, no alien blood in his veins.
AAaahhH, the code of "the guys" has been invoked like a get out of jail free card in monopoly or, more appropriately at this age – a blank hall pass. But I have something better, more powerful than a blank hall pass and I don't have to dig deep in my arsenal of Mom power to pull it out.
"Where ever you go, whatever you do, know I love you." I say in my Mom tone, hoping to make an echo that will sound to the after school place of the guys, to the future when I am not always so close and if the phrase gets mingled in memory that the "go" or "do" should transpose or drop, that his memory hears my loving voice, "I love you."
I soften my eyes, drop my shoulders, open my arms and hold the teen, that once was a boy who broke his arm on the monkey bars, once was a baby I breast fed – I hold his history in our joint memory, respecting amae, his sweet dependency on me. I just hold him soft and he rests his head on my breasts. I whisper once more, "I love you."
His eyes flash, a sneaky smirk emerges and he says, "if I show you, well, know one can know, Moms don't know about it, we don't allow girls, and we'll have to go early Saturday morning when no one else is there… do you want to go?"
Gosh! I'm being invited to explore a place where no Moms have gone before. I'll boldly go, so I matched his enthusiasm with a low, confidential, "yes!"
Saturday morning came, he couldn't wait till I had coffee, he did wait till I came out of the bathroom. He informed me I needed to wear gym shoes, long jeans and long sleeves. Apparently this strange new world required minimum skin exposure. He said his sister should stay home, so I told her of the undesirable errands of a Saturday morning routine and told her she did not have to go, she could watch cartoons with the dog. She didn't argue.
My son asked me to drive him to his school and park in back, I did. He showed me a path that did not look treacherous and might be a good place to take my miniature poodle, but as we progressed down the path I noted that we went a ways and now the school was out of sight. He gave me a tour, explaining how they leave their backpacks at the big oak tree and walk across the logs that fell across the creek. He told me how he was brave to climb this half dead tree and dared one of the other guys to try but would not. I realized we were no longer on a path but now walking through a creek bed and I am very afraid of snakes – and this is Texas! But I didn't want to miss his stories or prevent him from taking me to his destination. I felt so honored, to go where no mom has gone before!
We came to an open field with a single tree. We approached the tree and he showed me the secret hiding place of the sharpened paper clip as well as the carvings of four boy names on the tree, his name and three others. Boys I have watched grow over the years.
His explore, his path. Not the path I would have chose, I would not dare unearth snakes in a creek bed or chanced a fall on the slope of mud he had me traverse. But that is part of the boy enroute to manhood, exploring his way, making his own path, and even if I don't agree or think there is a better path – it is sometimes a hard position, to hold the mission of: I love you. Implied is "no matter what."
The route back from the carved tree was the same, through the bushes, atop leaves possibly hiding spiders, through the creek bed possibly hiding snakes, down a muddy slope I cling branches to avert a fall, and curving through woods that felt like we might have gone in a circle a few times to get back to the path suitable for my poodle, and then back to the parking lot to my vehicle. We were gone an hour and a half, well, in Mom time, and I was transported with guided tour and narration to explore and view his world. I am so honored.
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