Why I Quit Mothering My Teenage Son
…and started loving him instead
There was something that I asked you: to empty the dishwasher please, to clean up your bedroom, to pack up for your dad’s, to get your stuff organized for your trip.
Do you have? Do you need? Did you find? Made a list? Where’s your suitcase? Got your ticket?
It’s a morning in July, and we drive to the airport at 9 am. You, to board a plane to Calgary to work on the Bow River. Off to spend your summer with a bunch of teenagers hauling rafts up and down the river bank for people who will float back down.
In the years before, you went off to camp for a week, then a month. And me, reading from that first camp list, shopping, gathering, carefully packing your suitcase, labelling your underwear for a week alone, at camp, at seven years old.
The next year, and years after, you knew the deal and wanted to pack yourself. I’d suggest some things on the list that you were missing.
“I don’t need a raincoat, it’s OK, we just get wet.”
Now sixteen, you’re flying away for the summer. And I still want to help you to gather, to organize, to plan and make sure you have all you will need. I can control this. I can’t control that you will be gone, away for months.
