“Mom, I need your help,” my freshly minted 12-year-old son declares, flopping down beside me on the couch, breaking a rare moment of tranquility as I indulge in a book. This better be interesting.
I glance up at his disheveled hair, athletic clothes muddied from a day at basketball camp, and a face glistening with sweat and sunblock. “Is it that you really need to take a shower?”
“Come on, Mom,” he replies with a goofy grin. “No, I’m just bored.”
Well, that’s a surprise.
“Should I bring up the shower again?” I suggest, half-joking.
“Later,” he responds, absentmindedly twisting his hair between his fingers.
Ah, my little one is clearly worn out. That simple gesture tugs at my heartstrings and transports me back in time. I can picture him in his crib, twirling his hair before sleep, or the sleepy gaze he wore at nursery school when I would peek in before pickup. I remember countless moments—his heavy eyelids, his fingers spinning around and around.
Over the years, I’ve told him time and again to stop because it would knot his hair, but he never paid me any mind. I think he eventually outgrew it, but now I’m reminded of this little signal that would indicate it was bedtime. It’s such a sweet memory.
I smile, grateful for this interruption of my solitude to share a moment with him. My husband and younger son are off at a baseball game, and I chose to stay home with the other boys who have been busy all week. These moments of quiet are rare; life is usually a whirlwind.
“So, how was camp?” I ask, even though I know I’ve already asked and received the typical blank stare and a half-hearted “fine.” This time, though, he opens up, recounting his day, his birthday, and his last baseball game, all while twisting his hair.
I savor every word, then say, “You’re exhausted, my love.”
“There’s an issue,” he continues, propping his feet up on my legs. “I’m hungry.”
Even through his socks, I catch a whiff of them. “Oh, there’s definitely a problem here,” I agree, nudging him away. “Go take a shower, please.” He reluctantly stands but pauses to lean in for a hug—a warm, slightly sweaty embrace.
I watch as he lumbers off, his preteen body so different from the baby he once was, yet there’s still a hint of that little boy within him. This transition to adolescence is filled with mixed emotions. I adore witnessing his growth—physically, mentally, and socially—but with each milestone, I feel myself losing more of my little one.
I hear the shower running upstairs. Afterward, he’ll either read or play on his phone in his room. He’s gradually drifting away, consumed by friends, school, sports, and life. Setting my book aside, I stand to slice him an apple, peeling it just the way he likes.
It’s not a problem.
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In summary, these small interruptions from my preteen son, while often inconvenient, are precious moments that allow me to connect and cherish the fleeting nature of childhood.