You’d think I’d be happy for my son. Happy that he’s a year older, that he’s one year away from being The Teenager. He’s happy, so like any good mother, I should be happy for him.
I’m sorry to say, I’m not happy.
Sad. Sad. Sad.
Sad because he’s growing too fast. I can’t handle the speed at which he’s approaching adulthood. I wasn’t prepared for the emotions that come with watching my babies grow up. No one told me it would be this hard, no one told me it would hurt this much. Why didn’t anyone warn me?
I remember the day he asked me if he could call me “mom” instead of mommy. Oh, how my heart broke into a million little pieces.
“Why do you want to call me mom? Why not mommy?”
“Because, I’m a big boy now, so I want to call you mom. Is that ok?”
I forced a smile as I replied “Of course it’s ok, mi hijo”
But it wasn’t ok. I wasn’t ready to be “Mom” yet. I wanted to be mommy for just a little longer.
Before I knew it, all of the little things I loved about being a mother, the things I had taken for granted, were being taken away from me.
I wasn’t allowed to kiss him when I dropped him off at school, nor was I allowed to hold his hand in public. Oh, and “please don’t shout out “I love you” when I walk away, Mom.”
Perhaps I knew that day would come, the day where my son would be too cool to hold my hand in public, but I chose to live in denial about it. I’d heard other mothers joking about it “Just wait until he doesn’t want to hold your hand in public anymore” they’d say, as they’d laugh. I’d laugh with them, or should I say at them. I’d think to myself “Ha! My kids will ALWAYS want to hold my hand! I’m so sorry for you, but that will NEVER happen to me.”
Boy, was I wrong.
I hate it. I hate it hate it hate it. I hate it so much I’m throwing a tatrum right now. A big, FAT tantrum. It sucks! It’s stupid! WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS? I want to be mommy again. I want to hold his hand and kiss him and scream “I LOVE YOU” at the top of my lungs whenver and wherever I feel like it and I want him to be ok with that, and not be embarrassed about it, just like The Old Days. The days where he was proud to hold my hand, where he loved my kisses on his cheeks, no matter WHO was watching.
It feels good to let it out. To cry about it, to be sad about it, to throw a full blown tantrum about it, because, what else CAN I do about it?
Accept it? Yeah. That’s what.