My 11-year-old son, Jake, lounges in front of the TV with a plate of tater tots precariously balanced on his lap. He’s wearing a faded hoodie from his favorite baseball team, a memento from our time in the Bay Area before relocating to a quieter part of California. As he munches on his snack, he bursts into laughter at a punchline from his favorite show, Fresh Off the Boat, while absentmindedly petting our dog.
Nearby, his 9-year-old brother, Noah, is sprawled out on the dog bed, laughing at entirely different things. The age gap between them is evident, especially as Jake approaches the transition from tween to teenager.
Both of us are caught in a transitional phase. I’m 35 and still feel like the person I was at 18, trying to redefine myself after moving back to my hometown with my husband, leaving behind the lively cities we had known. Jake, on the other hand, is navigating that tricky middle ground of adolescence—eager for everything, yet reluctant to wait.
“Mom! Mom!” Jake’s voice pulls me from my work. I’m juggling a deadline, helping Noah with a school project, and tidying up.
“What? Is it urgent?” I ask, trying to focus.
“This new computer I want is only—”
“No!” I cut him off, weary of this ongoing negotiation. Every day, he presents a new item on his wish list—sometimes it’s an iPhone, other times a laptop—but he seems oblivious to how fortunate he already is.
Just a short while ago, we had to take away the computer he had for chatting with strangers online without our permission. What was he thinking? He even tried to engage a Dell service rep about hardware!
At a restaurant, he refuses the kids’ menu, only to leave half of his burrito untouched. He won’t pack the leftovers for school because he lost his lunch box and fears being teased for using a brown bag. I find myself rolling my eyes often these days, a habit he’s picked up too.
The moments of genuine connection have become rare. When he was younger, I could easily coax him into spending time with me through books or cartoons. Now, Jake often retreats to his room, lost in his own world.
During a car ride, while waiting for Noah’s swim practice to end, I listen to a comedic podcast that has provided me a few laughs since our move. Jake is absorbed in a book, yet I know he loves music, especially U2. I take out my headphones and connect my phone to the speakers, hoping he’ll enjoy the humor. After a series of ridiculous song snippets, we share a laugh together, a moment of lightness amidst the chaos.
As middle school approaches, Jake is buzzing with excitement after his first tour of a STEM school. He dreams of app development and video production, but we worry about his motivation; he was removed from the advanced reading group for not participating. Still, his teacher suggests the STEM program, and we tell Jake he needs to work hard to make it happen.
He decides at the last minute to join his brother and dad for Halloween. He throws on his hoodie and uses my eyeliner to write “2014” on his cheek as a tribute to the Giants. It’s a lazy costume, but who can blame him when his team has just won the World Series?
Jake gets accepted into the STEM school, and we celebrate with sushi. He seems to grow taller and more confident, relishing the recognition from family and friends. Yet, beneath that excitement lies a D in History due to incomplete work, half-hearted attempts at chores, and strained interactions with his brother.
Spring arrives, and with it, track season. Jake and Noah eagerly tell me about practice and the need for new shoes. He insists I shouldn’t come, but I do anyway. Watching him run, I’m taken aback by his speed and grace. The coach even comments on his natural talent, and I can see the pride in Jake’s eyes.
Later, he surprises me by asking for a hug—a gesture I haven’t heard in ages. As we embrace, he thanks me for coming to practice, a small sign of his growing maturity.
When a U2 song plays, I’m overwhelmed by emotion. Bono’s lyrics resonate with me: “Baby slow down. The end is not as fun as the start.” I realize that while the path of growing up is filled with challenges, it also holds beautiful moments. I long for Jake to savor this in-between phase, even if it’s not typical for an 11-year-old.
As I try to slow down and appreciate these fleeting moments, I acknowledge that life is a series of experiences, some delightful and others bittersweet. I hope to share these lessons with my son, encouraging him to embrace his journey without rushing toward adulthood.
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In summary, parenting an 11-year-old is a delicate balance of allowing freedom while encouraging patience. As Jake navigates these formative years, I strive to savor the present and help him appreciate the journey ahead.