Oldest. He is teetering at the edge of 10 ½, feeling a desire for more independence, striving for his own identity, and—well, he loves me, but I’m sort of a hassle. I’m his connection to childhood, which is sometimes a good thing and sometimes a bad thing. I insist that he do math, and grammar, and write neatly enough that others can actually read it. Daily. I have this annoying tendency to push things like vegetables, sharing, getting your work done, keeping eye-rolling to a bare minimum, and being nice to sisters. He knows by now that I am in no way a perfect mother, and that we both have bulldog instincts when it comes to an argument (Who me? Let go? You first.)
There is a part of me that will always want to be a cool mom. I try to do what’s best for my kids, and I take un-cool stances all the time, but I can’t say I always do it with confidence and without hesitation. I know without a doubt that my kids love me, but I really like it when they like me, too. Honestly, it’s painful being a drag. So maybe it’s silly, but I find a huge amount of grace in the fact that I can raise my esteem in the eyes of a ten year-old boy by eating an Atomic Fireball with a smile. Want one?
