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SEPARATION ANXIETY
"We've had bad luck with our kids—they've all grown up."
—Christopher Morley
Technically speaking, my son Justice is six years old, but for all
the growing up he has done lately, I may as well be living with a
teenager. I was so looking forward to the holiday break, now long
gone, so that I would have unlimited amounts of time
to catch up on all the Justice kissing, squeez
ing, pinching and tickling that I just don't get
enough of during the hectic days of never-end
ing school and work demands. He put the kibosh
on that idea early in the week, though, when
during a too-long embrace, he brusquely shoved
me back. "Mom," he said, wiping my saliva off
of his face, "You treat me like a little kid. Dad
treats me like a man." With that statement, he
turned on his heels and headed to the computer
for some testosterone-filled game time, leaving
me to feebly mutter, "Do not."
"Well, do you treat him like a little kid?"
several friends asked when I related this story. Of
course I do! He IS a little kid! He's six, not 16!
And let me say this, when I signed up to do this
whole mothering thing nobody told me the baby
would grow up. Yes, I know that people grow up.
I mean, I did it. I watched my sister do it. I've
watched other people's kids do it. But MY baby?
Why would MY baby grow up? Even as I made
plans for college savings and strategic moves to
get into a "better" school system when Justice
could barely toddle, I still didn't think of him as
capable of becoming an older kid.
Now my walking, life-sized calendar of a son
reminds me every day, with each pair of pants that
grows shorter and a vocabulary that grows longer,
that time is fleeting. He is growing up, but I often
still feel like the mother of baby Justice, not grow
ing-up Justice. This bigger kid has ever, more com
plexities to navigate and moods to figure out than
the infant I brought home. Overwhelming as it was
at the time, new parenthood seems much less daunt
ing now. I mean, then it was either feed me, burp
me, or rock me. Now I don't know if his distance
means something is bothering him, or if it's just a
new phase amongst dozens. I don't know if he won't
tell me what happened at school that day because
nothing memorable occurred, or because something
tragic happened that will scar him for life, but I
won't know about it until I read it in his bestseller or
see it on his therapy bill. When he does talk to me, the stories are
often incredibly grandiose, and I try to grasp onto the one grain
of reality that will give me some connection into his little world.
Changing poopy diapers was easier. And by the way, when I was
changing diapers and I used to read that that was the easy stuff, I
wanted to take said reading material and throw it right back in the
writer's face. But now I can say, I feel you.
Yes, life is becoming more complicated because my child is be
coming more complicated. He is now capable
of being embarrassed
by me, feeling ashamed of certain behaviors, even of the occa
sional show of empathy. He is also acutely aware of any possible
forthcoming degradation, which is completely intolerable in his
opinion. On a recent trip through the bank drive-thru, as I reached
for my cash out of the little metal drawer. Justice spouted from
the back seat, "I hope they didn't give me a lollipop. If they did,
that would be so humiliating!" I think I teared up a little. I could
remember a day when leaving the bank without a lollipop would
mean a four-star meltdown. Now, well, that's baby stuff.
It is becoming more and more clear that not only is my child
growing up, and away, but he is also most certainly a boy, and this
creates the dreaded mother-son gender gap. I don't like to play
"Guitar Hero," computer games or Yu-Gi-Oh cards. I prefer classic
rock to the "cool and heavy" music Justice has become interested
in. I can build a fort and catch a frog with the best of them,
but most of my attempts at mother-led quality time are deemed
"lame." Justice does not like to paint, clean or sit
quietly with a book. He will still let me read to him
at night, but at the moment it pains me to say he
has entered a "books are uncool" phase. (It better be
a phase, anyway.)
At the crux of this gender gap is what I have be
gun to affectionately refer to as "The Hot Girl Issue."
Justice's dad does, indeed, treat him like a man,
so much so that on a recent sojourn to the grocery
store, my small son returned clutching a Maxim mag
azine proudly in his sweaty little hands. For those of
you not familiar with the publication, it is kind of a
PG version of Playboy. The women aren't naked, but
they don't leave much to the imagination.
I didn't think Maxim was particularly appropri
ate for a six year old, which I made clear to the
spouse, but while we were sparring about it ("It's
just bodies!" "Don't teach him to objectify wom
en!''), Justice was ripping out his favorites to hang
on his bedroom wall. Now whenever we are going
to have a playdate, I run up to his room and take
down his "hot girls," and as soon as company is
gone, he puts them right back up. I don't think I
would be having this dilemma with a daughter.
At this point, I am feeling a little used. I
mean, I've done so much for the kid. All the
waking up at night, the constant nursing, the
soothing, the singing, the worrying: making sure
each moment of his life was filled with just the
right combination of free play and intellectual
stimulation. I had no idea he was going to charm
his way into my heart and then toss me aside.
The only solution is to accept that I have to let
him go a little bit at a time, but he will always
be my little man. And I guess making an effort
to bridge the gap of our interests wouldn't hurt,
either. I can learn to rock out on the "Guitar
Hero," and I suppose I'll be fine as long as he
lets me leave love notes in his lunches.
The "Hot Girl Issue" may remain heated
for some time, but I'm going to try to wean
him down from Maxim to Cosmo, then maybe
Woman's Day. Maybe we will eventually end
up with all of our hot girls coming from the pages of National
Geographic Kids. A hip mamma can dream.
Elizabeth Deroshia
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