He stands more than a head taller than I, his locks buzzed close to his head and bleached blond, ears pierced with silver studs, and an old Indian Rupee hanging around his neck. Fun fact: I too dabbled in blond when I was his age. Let’s just say he is far cooler than I ever was.
He is my towering baby boy, the gentlest of giants. He has always been good natured with an old soul and a kind heart. Even in our darkest moments in this maelstrom of adolescent and perimenopausal hormonal storms, he comes to say good night every night, bending his head down so I can reach to give him a kiss. It’s no secret he is the most kind, generous, and patient among us.
I have much to learn from him.
As a little boy he used to check in and ask in his tender voice, “Mommy, are you happy?” He was full of hugs then. The pulling away in teenage years is perhaps the most heartbreaking part of parenting. I miss him nestling in to watch TV, his belly rising up and down, the cadence of our breath in sync. He used to practically be a fifth appendage, and I can still feel the weight of him in my muscle memory. Time marches on. Our babies grow up. And this, his year of turning 17, I brace myself for this time next year when he’s on the cusp of leaving.
I watch him in awe, wondering how time moves at light speed.
These last years have been difficult for us all. Many nights I lay my head down knowing I sunk to new lows as a mother. It’s been hard to be my best self, and it is he who is always forgiving. Frustrated, yes. How could he not be? But also forgiving. It is testament to his character, and I see it in how he treats his friends, too. To be his friend is joy. To be his mom is a gift.