I Almost Have a Teenager
In 6 days I will be the mom of a teenager. Everyone always says that time is but a blink of an eye. That time goes so fast. It does, and it doesn't all at once.
I remember vividly the day that Matthew was born. Emergency C-section at 34 1/2 weeks. It was a Monday, and I remember that because the day before I was at church, singing my heart out to hymns, and he was tumbling all around his cramped living space. The next day he moved not at all. I went to work (I worked at a dental office back then), and I had some light spotting. I was concerned enough to call my OBGYN office, and we planned to have me seen after work. Long story short, as many of you have heard it before, Matthew did not move again all day, nor later at my appointment despite countless efforts to elicit a response-movement/positional changes, sugar, shock. Nothing.
I would love to say that I remember his first breaths, but he came out not breathing at all. His first breaths were delivered via ambu-bag by his father and the on-call pediatrician who in the weirdest twist of fate, I would work for briefly before his retirement last year. Time was not fast at Matthew's birth. It was slow. It was interminable. The hours stretched before I could once again lay eyes on my child who had been whisked away. It was eons, Jurassic, Triassic, entire periods of huge chunks of time that passed -it felt- before I could hold my baby three days later. 9 days later we went home, and the first few months of maternity leave with a child I was terrified was so fragile were never ending.
But then time sped up. He was crawling, walking, kicking a ball, Isaiah came along. More years passed and I was divorced and then remarried. We moved a few times. I remember the first soccer game, the way he held his baby brother, the way he reassured me (at age 5!!) when my heart was broken. I remember him coming into my high school science class and watching a dissection when he was in pre-school. His crushes. His hopes. His goals. His school projects. His face crumpling when Max was sick. I of course have more recent memories too, a choir duet, domination on the soccer field, basketball court, and baseball field, a weekend just with he and I when we discussed puberty and sexuality.
My baby is slowly (yet oh so quickly) turning into a young man. He is a young man who cares deeply about his grades, his sports, his pets, and his family. He is a young man who knows God (perhaps better than I). He is calm and stoic, intelligent and compassionate. He is talented and most of all, he is kind. So kind. I am immeasurably proud. He is also moody, sulky, and full of smart assed comments, and argues with his little brother often. He worries about his hair, his skin, and when his braces will come off.
How on Earth do I have a teenager? In 5 more short years he will be a man. I pray that he will be a good one, and I feel that he will.
I feel like a teenager myself at times. Who made me responsible enough to be an adult?? I still want to roll my eyes when people say dumb things. I want to cry and sulk, to hang my head and to flop on my bed. I don't want to do things that are boring, like work or driving or chores. I don't want to get up on time. I want to eat entire pizzas and potato chips, cookies and ice cream with no regrets. I want to run through the house crazily excited when my crush notices me (and quite frankly spend all my time hugging, kissing and talking to him...Matt isn't there yet thank God!). But I don't. I hold my tongue. I keep a steady job, a clean house, and responsible hours. I eat (mostly) healthily. Often I am far too busy to enjoy more than some stolen kisses at the end of the day when my crush (aka husband) and I are both exhausted. I put my sons' needs and wants ahead of my own daily. Is this what makes us adult?
Regardless, I will have a teenager soon. It has flown by in many ways, and I am determined to make the next 5 years matter. To engrave them in my memory. To cherish them, to give him roots and wings, stability and freedom.
I remember vividly the day that Matthew was born. Emergency C-section at 34 1/2 weeks. It was a Monday, and I remember that because the day before I was at church, singing my heart out to hymns, and he was tumbling all around his cramped living space. The next day he moved not at all. I went to work (I worked at a dental office back then), and I had some light spotting. I was concerned enough to call my OBGYN office, and we planned to have me seen after work. Long story short, as many of you have heard it before, Matthew did not move again all day, nor later at my appointment despite countless efforts to elicit a response-movement/positional changes, sugar, shock. Nothing.
I would love to say that I remember his first breaths, but he came out not breathing at all. His first breaths were delivered via ambu-bag by his father and the on-call pediatrician who in the weirdest twist of fate, I would work for briefly before his retirement last year. Time was not fast at Matthew's birth. It was slow. It was interminable. The hours stretched before I could once again lay eyes on my child who had been whisked away. It was eons, Jurassic, Triassic, entire periods of huge chunks of time that passed -it felt- before I could hold my baby three days later. 9 days later we went home, and the first few months of maternity leave with a child I was terrified was so fragile were never ending.
But then time sped up. He was crawling, walking, kicking a ball, Isaiah came along. More years passed and I was divorced and then remarried. We moved a few times. I remember the first soccer game, the way he held his baby brother, the way he reassured me (at age 5!!) when my heart was broken. I remember him coming into my high school science class and watching a dissection when he was in pre-school. His crushes. His hopes. His goals. His school projects. His face crumpling when Max was sick. I of course have more recent memories too, a choir duet, domination on the soccer field, basketball court, and baseball field, a weekend just with he and I when we discussed puberty and sexuality.
My baby is slowly (yet oh so quickly) turning into a young man. He is a young man who cares deeply about his grades, his sports, his pets, and his family. He is a young man who knows God (perhaps better than I). He is calm and stoic, intelligent and compassionate. He is talented and most of all, he is kind. So kind. I am immeasurably proud. He is also moody, sulky, and full of smart assed comments, and argues with his little brother often. He worries about his hair, his skin, and when his braces will come off.How on Earth do I have a teenager? In 5 more short years he will be a man. I pray that he will be a good one, and I feel that he will.
I feel like a teenager myself at times. Who made me responsible enough to be an adult?? I still want to roll my eyes when people say dumb things. I want to cry and sulk, to hang my head and to flop on my bed. I don't want to do things that are boring, like work or driving or chores. I don't want to get up on time. I want to eat entire pizzas and potato chips, cookies and ice cream with no regrets. I want to run through the house crazily excited when my crush notices me (and quite frankly spend all my time hugging, kissing and talking to him...Matt isn't there yet thank God!). But I don't. I hold my tongue. I keep a steady job, a clean house, and responsible hours. I eat (mostly) healthily. Often I am far too busy to enjoy more than some stolen kisses at the end of the day when my crush (aka husband) and I are both exhausted. I put my sons' needs and wants ahead of my own daily. Is this what makes us adult?
Regardless, I will have a teenager soon. It has flown by in many ways, and I am determined to make the next 5 years matter. To engrave them in my memory. To cherish them, to give him roots and wings, stability and freedom.
Comments
Post a Comment
Thank you for your comments!