As my son’s teenage years approached, I knew I didn’t want to be that mom.
My little boy who once so openly adored me is masked by pre-teen, eye-rolling, heavy-sighing adolescence.
I remember feeling nervous as a 9th grade girl—wanting to feel pretty, fretting over whether my outfit and hair were just right, putting on a face of confidence when I was terrified on the inside.
But somehow the birthdays came mighty fast. One. Five. Nine.
Why is it so hard to ask, to promote ourselves?
His little boy smell, the feel of his warm and slightly sticky self pressed against me, his blond hair flying into my eyes, my nose, covering my lips.
How long after my tiny son’s birth, did your own body bring forth a tender wailing child?
My expectation is that they treat me especially nice every day.
I have come to find that most teens want the same thing: to feel their parents are supporting them during their journey of self-exploration.
I don’t want him to get the wrong idea about suicide. I want him to know that there is no glory in killing yourself.