I don't mean that he's suddenly taller than you ( although that happens too ) but that he suddenly feels that it's no longer cool to be seen anywhere in public with his mum.
No more shopping together for his clothes - " you always choose ugly things! "
No more meeting in town for a milkshake- " I'm meeting my friends! "
No more sitting together at the cinema- " why would I want to see that film with you? "
No more family days on the beach- " there's a whole group of us going later."
And if you do pass him in the street with his friends, you must absolutely not ever wave or show that you recognise him- " why did you do that mum? You're so embarrassing."
It's not that daughters don't do it too. It's just that their desire to be independent and free themselves from parental control doesn't seem to need such a complete disconnect.
Often our daughter will still let me meet her in town for a coffee ( if I'm paying ) or to go shopping ( if I'm paying ) and she will even still sit next to me at the cinema ( if I'm paying ).
Girls seem to be able to mix family and friends more easily than boys.
And the hard thing with boys, is the suddenness with which it all happens.
Boys seem to lurch up the hill of adolescence in zig-zagging, unpredictable strides, while girls take it more slowly and long-sufferingly.
Our son, Joss, seemed to go to bed one night a sweet little boy, still wanting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story, and woke up the next morning a grunting teenager.
As his mum, I found the speed at which it happened confusing and complicated and
(dare I say it ) just a little bit sad.
Overnight I had to rethink a relationship that had been based on that special " mother-son thing,":
knowing the things that made him grumpy,
understanding, without words, when he was tired or hungry or out of his comfort zone, knowing when he just needed a hug or a few words of encouragement.
All of that was gone.
It felt as though during the night an alien had landed in my son's body and it was making him speak a language that I couldn't understand.
Whatever I said was wrong.
However I said it was irritating.
Whatever I wanted to know was none of my business.
" What would you like for breakfast?" " Not hungry.
" What time will you be back?" " Why?"
" Will you be home for lunch?" " Dunno."
" You should wear a coat, it's freezing." " It's not. Stop talking so much."
Ninesh, his dad, seemed completely unphased by the sudden change.
He seemed almost relieved that someone in the house was, at last, speaking his language.
No more having to analyse emotions and discuss for hours how to deal with a situation.
" Leave him alone," he'd say, " he's told you he's not hungry." " If he gets cold, that's his problem."
And I know he's right.
But silently watching your son walking away from you is very hard.
Accepting that he will no longer be the little boy, holding your hand as he skips along the pavement next to me, is hard.
To keep him close, I have had to learn a different way of being.
I have had to learn to bite my tongue, to listen not speak, to wait until information is offered rather than to request it, to cross the road when I see him and his friends in town, to interpret grunts, to keep the fridge full, to let him get cold and wet, to trust this stranger that is my son.
Finding things that we can do together, has been hard.
He can go to football matches with his dad.
He can discuss fashion and music with his sister.
He has little in common with me.
But last weekend we flew together to Berlin, taking his cousin, Toby, with us.
And perhaps because it is rare that we spend so much time together, perhaps because I have learnt to value moments that we share, we had a magical time.
We stayed with my cousin, surprised her son for his 10th birthday, go-karted at his party (not me!) cycled around the Brandenburg Gate on a six-seater bike (including me) and ate Bratwurst in the " Mauerpark," drifting across the no man's land of old East-West days.
And as we sat in the plane on the way home, Joss leant his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.
Very gently, I leant my head against his.
And for just a moment, he was skipping along the pavement next to me, holding my hand.
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| 3 cousins waiting to go-kart in Berlin |
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