“Wake me at 7:59?” he asks each night as I head upstairs to bed. He’s perched in front of his PC, ready for some Fortnite or NBA2K before his bedtime. I kiss him on the cheek.
“I love you,” I say as I leave the room. “I love me, too,” he laughs. And then after a pause, “No, really. I love you.” Sometimes he asks me to come back for a hug. The next morning I peek in as he sleeps, noticing shadows of the 7-year-old I tucked into the bottom bunk eight years ago when we adopted him and his older brother, new parents with zero years of experience on our resumes. I also see a whisper of the man he will be in his broadening shoulders and shadowy facial hair. Fifteen is mythology, a centaur age -- half boy/half man. After waking (at the requested 7:59), he stumbles out of bed to the yellow kitchen bench and starts on his online schoolwork while I make breakfast. Occasionally asking for help, he’s usually done with one of his four classes before school would have started (8:30) before the virus. Eventually I head upstairs to my office where I check in with students and respond to some writing or, if I'm feeling brave, work on my own writing. He continues to work, coming up to ask for help with a journalism assignment or to snuggle with Rooney. “I’m so popular,” he jokes, grabbing his phone from the charging station by my desk and scrolling through notifications. He’s mostly self-motivated and independent, a self-proclaimed homebody who is happy that I can no longer invite random guests over for dinner on a weekly basis. Of course he’s a teenager who misses his friends, but armed with snacks, video games, and driveway basketball, he could live this “stay-at-home” life indefinitely. “Rooney, you’re my favorite family member,” he declares, winking at me as he walks back downstairs. Despite living in the same house, we have a lengthy text thread full of Brooklyn Nine Nine gifs and dog memes. Sometimes I watch him play a video game. If he’s in the mood, we take a neighborhood walk with Rooney or do an ab workout in the basement. While I know we’re not supposed to name Enneagram types for others, I think he’s a 5, a curious thinker who is disinclined to talk about emotions. I’m a 2, an empathic helper, creating some conflicts for us. His joking style is witty and sometimes barbed. It can cause me to double over with laughter in the kitchen as he teases Chris, but other times he will accuse me of being “sensitive” if I’m not in the mood. He’s not wrong. It’s a dance we are learning to choreograph together as he recognizes when he’s stepping on my toes and I practice steps that aren’t always my preferred style. Most of the time, though, we're at least dancing to the same music.
1 Comment
Missy
4/15/2020 06:21:30 pm
"Fifteen is mythology, a centaur age -- half boy/half man." What an absolutely PERFECT sentence! Loved this tribute to your son.
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September 2020
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