"Do you have children?" the woman next to me in yoga asks as we engage in polite small talk. I reply that yes, I have three boys, the oldest of whom will be 11 in a couple weeks. She looks at me, incredulous. (It's the face. I've always had one of those young-looking faces, but if she saw me out at, say, Target by myself with all three boys looking tired and haggard, boy would she believe me. Child-rearing is the perfect antidote to that too-young-looking countenance, I'm telling you! It'll knock that youthful vitality right out of you.)
Anyway, it's true. My boy is almost 11. I can scarcely understand how we got here so quickly, but I do the math, and it's inevitable – Ben is a tween. The intervening 11 years have changed me - emotionally, physically and otherwise. (Especially physically. I used to have breasts. Swear to God. Then I spent years nursing three children, and now I could more successfully shop for bras of the training variety. The things we moms sacrifice! Let's not even get into pelvic floor muscles.)
As much as time has altered me, it's nothing compared to the number it's working on Ben. This is the time, the period when everything starts to change. It started toward the end of summer. My oldest suddenly began to take more interest in hygiene. He'd begin most mornings with an unprompted shower. Say what?
"Um, Mom?" he asked hesitantly a few days after cross country practice began. "Do you think you could get me some deodorant? Coach says we should all be using it."
This is all so odd to me. I hadn't begun to detect the tell-tale funky smell that often accompanies tweens of a certain age, but I honored Ben's request. He's taken to using his dad's bath products and emerges from the steamy bathroom each morning smelling manly. It's a little disquieting.
Ben began the school year gung ho. That first week of school, he'd pop right out of bed, up and at 'em, enthusiastic for his new adventures. Already that's beginning to change. He needs to be at his bus stop at about 7 a.m., a feat that would be challenging even for me, but this early wake-up time runs completely counter to tween and teen biology.
It's getting harder and harder to rouse Ben in the morning, and already I can envision all the mornings for the next seven years that I'll be dragging him out of bed by his feet. (I can still hear my mom's chirping calls to us in middle and high school. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" In the winter when I was in junior high, I'd often fall asleep in front of a space heater and nearly, or sometimes completely, miss my bus. Gosh, I hated junior high.)
Can scarfing down enormous amounts of food be far behind? And as yet, I'm not seeing signs of interest in girls, but I'm sure that isn't too far off. And then I think I'll lose a little piece of him forever.
As much as these are strange times for me, I'm so pleased with how Ben is doing. He does his homework dutifully each night, no complaints. The second week of cross country, my guy was named athlete of the week for demonstrating hard work and leadership. "Ben is our rock star," his coach said at open house last night. "He works so hard."
Ben's English teacher praised him for how much he participates in class, saying he was a leader to the other kids. I burst with pride at how well he is turning out. We're beginning to see the benefits of many years spent shaping Ben into a person of character.
I knew this would be a transition year for us, and truly everything feels different. Ben leaves a full hour before I drive Paul to school. With cross country practice after school, piano on Tuesdays, faith formation on Wednesdays, soccer a couple nights a week, I feel like I don't get to see my oldest very often. I miss him. And this will be life from here on out, I suspect.
Harry Chapin was on to something with that whole Cats in the Cradle thing. I spent years desperately trying to carve out a little bit of time to myself, and now well ... "When you comin' home son
I don't know when, but we'll get together then, [Mom], We're gonna have a good time then."
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