The son is currently a hilarious caricature of a teenager. He’s anti-social, monosyllabic and most of all, hairy. Gone is the sweet little thing that would sit on my lap and let me pick which sweater vest he’d wear for picture day. In its place is this insanely tall, awkwardly sullen kid with nothing to say in the morning (“I’m not a morning person, Mom.”) or after school (“Bad day, Mom”) or before bedtime (“Too tired, Mom.”) This kid wants less to do with me than I do with fleas in my underwear.
Yet, there are moments when I see a glimmer of the sweetheart who used to let me tuck him in and who would rush to show me the good grade he got on his spelling test. Every once in awhile, a smile will crack the carefully maintained façade and my heart will leap and butterflies will flit around my head. Then the crack will slam shut, to be replaced with that look that says, “Mom. You are so lame. And so are your stupid butterflies.”
He was such a sweet little man. And I hope someday, he’ll be a sweet grown-up man. I just have to survive the next few years with my butterflies intact.