I Effing Love You, Bruh!

I Effing Love You, Bruh*! 

NOTE: This post rocks to I'm a Mother by the Pretenders. 

"I understand time and it isn't on my side..." 

~Chrissie Hynde

My baby boy** is 14. Almost 15. How is that possible. Just yesterday, he was so tiny I carried him around in a cute little pack on my back. 

Now he is taller than me. He has a job (at McDonald's, which was the place I had my first job too...we are twins!*** Fer cute!) 

He is the president of freshman student council. He plays too many sports. He spends waaaaaay too much time alone in his room. 

He is growing up and I have mixed feelings about that.

Hard Work and Heartache

Yesterday the boy and I were talking about his goals as a football player. He has been working his ass off all summer practicing being a "kicker". 

Now hold-up... a "kicker"? 

I don't really know what that means other than he kicks the ball, which I thought was just a part of what everyone did in all sports. Is there more to it than that? Is it an important part of the football team? 

Don't tell me. I don't care. It's not the point. 

This "sports mom" ain't no sports mom. 

Anyway, it occurred to me that if he wasn't picked for kicker it would disappoint him and might even make him feel bad about himself. And that notion hit me like a stab to the heart with a hot poker. 

Ack. 

Seeing him sad? 

I cannot. No. I can't. Please. 

Don't make me see it. 

Tough Mom

It was a weird reaction for me. My kids will tell you that I am tough. I let them take their hits and work to help them learn from those times when "life knocks ya in the teeth". 

Take this for example:

When my boy was three we were at a neighborhood park. The kid LOVED sticks (actually he still does.) He had found a great one. You know, a totally "just-right" stick. It was thick, but not too thick. Long but not too long. Great for digging, throwing like a javelin or hefting him like a pole vault. And, man-oh-man, it was  PERFECT for your basic ninja type stuff. He was totally grooving on that stick. 

Well, guess what happened? A BIG KID took his stick! 

My boy came running to me tears in his eyes and sputtered, "A big boy took my stick!" Now, if you know me even a little bit, you probably know what I said to him. 

"Wipe off those tears, kid and go get your stick back!" 

The point? I don't rescue my babies when they can and should rescue themselves.

And, he got his stick back. BOOM! Take that ya mean-ass big kid!  

Cry-Baby Mom

So..... 

Why all the hot-poker-in-the-heart cry-baby feelings about the whole kicker thing? What happened to Tough Mom? Who is this new Bleeding Heart Mom? 

I don't like her. Not at all. 

But, shit, my boy is almost 15! That means, legally I can only boss him around for three more years! I know that I'll likely get more than that. But, I left "home"**** at 17 and NEVER looked back. What if he's like me and yearns for that type of freedom? ONLY THREE MORE YEARS!!?!?!! 

No wonder I am a cry-baby. 

Well, after our heartbreaking conversation on those football goals, my boy went back downstairs to his room (of course) and I was left to reflect. 

Note: I use the term "reflect" loosely, what with the ADHD and all, my idea of "reflection" is to just spill my guts in an email and push send with no prior thought or rereading of the message. I know for a FACT I'm not the only one so don't judge me! 

Anyhoo, I "reflected" and wrote my kid an email.***** 

The Email

Dear Kid, 

There are some things I want to tell you but I know you won't want me to say them to your face and I get that. 

1. I truly believe that there is no way any kid on earth is a better son than you are. I am so proud of your responsibility, your kindness, and the way you pursue your goals and think about your future. I love the friends you pick and think you're SUPER funny (you know how much I appreciate funny!) I am grateful every single day that you are my child. 

2. No matter what, I am proud of you. Kicker. Not kicker. Big muscles. Small muscles. Level 3 in math. Level 2 in math. But, don't get a Level 1 in math. That means you didn't even try. Come on, man. At least try, right?!?! I think we're on the same page here. Whatever. I love you to the moon and back. Then. Now. Always. 

3. I will ALWAYS be here for you and believe it or not, you can tell me anything. I will support you. I will listen to you. I will trust that your heart and head are in the right place. 

4. I am your mother. I will correct you and discipline you because you are my world and I want what's best for you. That means you WILL get punished. I WILL swear at you when you need to be reminded that I am your boss. I WILL take you to Slam Town****** when you need to go there. Never forget that. Also never forget that if I didn't love you, I wouldn't care enough to do those things. Except the swearing. I know, I know, that's just weird for a mom. Get over it. 

5. Make good choices. You're getting to be at the age when mothers have to start worrying. If you have a GF, I need to know. You cannot be dumb here. Trust me, I've been around the block and I can help you navigate this shit. Similarly, do NOT do drugs or drink or smoke or do that crazy-ass vaping. Your brain will NOT be fully developed until you're 24. You cannot fuck it up. Be careful, okay? 

Dude, like it or not, you're my baby. I made you. Watching you grow has been amazing but it's also been a hell of a challenge. The very notion that you are going into high school and that all too soon you'll be moving into your adult life makes me cry. I remember when my dad said to me, "Why don't you just live in my basement forever?" I thought he was NUTS (and, as you know, he is...but that's a different thing...) It turns out, he wasn't (well, again, he was but asking me to live in his basement forever was not a sign of the real crazy). 

I LOVE that you are growing up. I HATE that you are growing up. 

Bottom line. I love you, bruh. So fucking much. When you feel bad. I feel bad. When I think about your feelings being hurt it makes me cry real tears. That's stupid. I know that. I also know I have to stand back and watch you move into the world and take your hits like a man should. And, I will. I promise. 

Just know this: 

I FUCKING LOVE YOU! With all of my heart. That will NEVER change. 

Hugs & kisses (even though you don't want them), 

Mother*******

What is Next? 

It's funny. I think lots of new parents think that their kids need them most when they are small. And, sure, they do need you then. But, for my money, my kids have needed me more as they work their way into and through their tweens and teens than ever before. 

I try to remember that.

Today, when I went downstairs to tell the boy good morning and make sure he was getting ready for his shift at McD's, he was looking pretty down. When I asked him what was up he said, "Nothing. Just leave me alone!" He said it kinda mean...actually, no "kinda" about it. He said it like a total asshole! 

But, because (as previously noted) I am a blabbermouth, I ignored that request and rubbed his back and said, "Dude, did you read the email I sent last night?" He said he hadn't (presumably because he feels he already has to listen to me enough without having to now read emails from me too) but he promised me he would read it after work. 

Before I left him I said, "Can I get you some eggs? Big breakie before work and all that?" 

No response. 

Sigh. 

I walked upstairs, cooked up six eggs, and hollered, "There's eggs if you want 'em!" Then, I went to my own room. 

Guess what? He ate the eggs. All six of them. He needed those eggs. He couldn't/wouldn't tell me he did. 

So, what's next? Nothing. Everything. I'm going to keep making eggs because, bruh, I effing love that kid. 

Even when he's an asshole. 

Post Script (PS)

Reader, you may be wondering what my son thinks about me sharing this email with the world (well, not the world, only like three people read my blog and I tell them everything anyway.) Stop wondering. He doesn't think about it because he doesn't know and you're not going to tell him! But, trusies, my family knows I'm a blabbermouth and a writer, they accept that their lives intersect with mine and thus our intertwined stories are mine to tell and theirs too. 

__________________________________________________________________

* See meme in pink. Sigh. 

** He hates it when I call him "baby boy." But, too bad. 

*** He hates it when I say that too. Damn. That boy won't is totally against freedom of speech. 

****My parents were drunks and seriously mentally ill. It was leave or die for me. So I left. My kids have a much better home than I did so maybe they won't be in such a hurry to run off? 

*****Unfortunately, I sent it to his school email address. Also unfortunately, I swear a lot. So, it will be caught by the school filter and I will have to hang my head low as the cussing-est principal in the world. Dammit. 

******Don't call social services. Slam Town is not a real place. It just means I will wrestle with him and he finds that incredibly embarrassing. 

*******Some moms don't like the term "mother" but I like it. It's old-fashioned and funny. I like old-fashioned and funny.