I get that sons need to separate from their mothers. But do they have to be so mean about it?
I’m a nice person. So I wasn’t prepared for the fact that as my sons approached their senior years of high school they would suddenly turn on me.
My younger son, especially, became positively surly. My mere existence annoyed him. I think Henry saw me as the embodiment of all that stood between him and a future of happy mother-free manhood. His spirit had already left home but his body had been forced to stay behind. I don’t know who suffered more.
My husband, Olof, said this was all part of the natural order of things. It’s far less traumatic to let your kids go off to college if you hate them.
But as they made their bumpy way to self-ing non-mother-needing maturity, they were regularly sticking it to Mom. Now, I realize that if you’re looking for gratitude, parenthood is the wrong business for you.
The kids had always referred to their dad’s house (my ex) as “the fun house” (it was) and my house as “the boring house” (it was). I had done every library run (pre-internet), including schlepping the kids to the downtown San Diego Library in rush-hour traffic, had driven every carpool (even on my ex-husband’s custody days because he totally screwed it up), used a year’s vacation time one year taking one of them to physical therapy after a serious sports injury, managed countless youth sports teams and ran multiple Cub Scout dens — all while working.
Every medical appointment and school project was done on my watch. Multiplication tables? Check. Spanish flash cards? Check.
My ex used to tell the kids not to expect to do homework on his custody nights because he had really cool things planned for them.
When my younger son was a high school senior, he was awarded a prestigious national honor for which the local media came to interview him. At the end of the interview, the newspaper reporter asked Henry: Is there anyone he wants to thank? Yes, he said, his dad for teaching him how to have fun.
I was sitting off in the corner waiting for him to add, “But the person I really want to thank is my mom, who has never missed a game and who has been there for me every step of the way.”
Reporter: “Anyone else?” He was practically begging Henry to thank me.
Henry pondered for a moment. No, no one he can think of. (OK, you miserable runt, kill your mother.)
Another newspaper saw this story and Henry got interviewed again. Anyone he wants to thank? Two people, he said: “My dad, for teaching me how to have fun.” I modestly lowered my eyes. “And Mr. Litchfield, my English teacher.”
For days afterward, I had to fight impulses to poison his lunches.
I was crushed. And more than a little annoyed. I didn’t say anything for a week as I contemplated the situation. Demanding that someone express thanks is no thanks at all. But finally one night at dinner, I thought I’d bring it up casually. “Would it have killed you to thank me???” I said.
Apparently yes. But more recently, giving a genuinely touching toast to Olof and me on a milestone occasion, Henry’s voice actually cracked with emotion as he thanked us for all we had done for him.
But that wasn’t happening at 17.
Meanwhile, my older son, Rory, wrote his college abnormal-psychology term paper about me — 18 pages worth of Mom analysis. That actually had a surprisingly positive outcome when, after interviewing me at length for the project, Rory concluded there were extenuating circumstances as to why I was the worst mother in the history of the world.
When Henry graduated from college and got his first job, he invited Olof and me to dinner. Historically, that would have been a cheap ploy for a free meal. But the bill came and Kid went to get it. I knew money was really tight for him with all the housing start-up costs, so I immediately grabbed it and handed it to Olof. Olof, to my surprise, whispered “Let him pay.” I did.
When we got home, Olof said: “You almost deprived your son of one of the greatest moments a guy can have — finally being able to take his parents to dinner. He’s telling you he’s an adult who can take care of himself — and in this case, us. Sometimes moms just miss this stuff completely.”
How did Olof know? Y chromosome communication? (Is there, in fact, any?)
So for all you moms out there with surly high school seniors, this: You’ll like them again someday. They’ll like you, too. Sometimes you just have to live long enough.
Inga’s lighthearted looks at life appear regularly in the La Jolla Light. Reach her at [email protected]. ◆
