Recently, my son, G3, called me to pick him up after school. We live only a half a mile away, close enough for him to walk, and most days he does walk because when I work, he has no other option. But I was off, and he felt like being lazy. I just missed the way things used to be, before I returned to teaching, and so I happily dropped what I was doing in order to get him. A block away from the school, as I saw him crossing the street, I pulled over to wait for him. The moment he yanked open the door, he asked me if we could detour to the Mini-Mart for him to get an Arizona Iced Tea. The kid eats enough sweets–he’s still got a bag full of candy from Halloween–so he certainly didn’t need more.Without giving it much thought, I shook my head “No.” A shadow of disappointment fell across his face, but surprisingly, he didn’t complain. He didn’t beg. Since he didn’t throw his usual snit, by the time I pulled into the driveway I started to reconsider. However, if I was going to get him an iced tea, he was going to have to walk. With me.
G3 is twelve, nearly thirteen, and he’s reached that stage where I’ve become an embarrassment to him. Okay, that might be a bit harsh and not completely true. I’m not an embarrassment, but being seen with me in public causes him a great deal of embarrassment. He’s too cool to go anywhere or do anything with his mother. I get it. I never went through that stage with my parents, at least I don’t think I did. I was always happy to have them show-up or be anywhere with me. But that was me. G3 is different. He has started to pull away, wanting more space and less time to interact and do mother and son activities. As for me, I’ve started to miss all the time we used to spend together, especially back in the days when I was a stay-at-home mom and all my free time was poured into him. Now, I’ve been reduced to scheming in order to find ways to get him to spend even five minutes with me. A walk to the mini-mart wasn’t much, but it was something. A few minutes during which we could talk and I could possibly find out about his day and what might be new in his life.
As I pulled the key out the ignition I turned to G3 and suggested, “If you’re up for a walk, we can go to the mini-mart and I’ll get you that iced tea.”
He started to grumble. His shoulders sagged, and I prepared myself for rejection. Instead, he bit down on his lower lip and slowly let out a lung full of air. “Fine,” he agreed, “but we can’t go now. All the kids from school will still be there. We’ll go in a half an hour.”
Trying not to smirk and let my excitement peek through, I opened my door and got out of the car. Back in the house, I resumed revising an essay while my son sat down to do his homework. At half past three, exactly a half hour after we had gotten home, I asked him if he still wanted the Arizona Iced Tea. He closed the screen of his Chromebook, smiled up at me, and headed out the front door.
We walked together, a good foot or two between us, but still close enough that we were able to match our strides. As we walked, I thought back to when he was just learning to walk, before he had complete command of his own legs. Every day that fall, regardless of how cold it was, I would take him outside to play. His tiny little hand would reach up and grab hold of my finger so that he didn’t fall. I walked slowly, letting him set the pace and he stopped constantly, examining everything. We never went far, just around the condo complex. Every time he came across a new treasure–a pebble, a feather, a flower–he called my attention to it. Pinecones were his favorite and he would pause to collect them, gathering up as many as his little arms could hold. They were like priceless gifts and he carried them as gingerly as if they were made of glass. Sometimes, he would hand them to me one at a time and I would count out loud, “One, two, three…” Oh how he loved the counting game. We’d pass the pinecones back and forth until he got tired of it. Back then, he was too little to talk so our conversations were often one-sided with me narrating the world–numbers, colors, names. Sometimes, I’d tell stories, enjoying the interested look on his little face.
Now he could talk just fine, but coaxing him into a conversation was getting harder and harder. I asked questions, “How was your day?” “What did you do?” “Did you learn anything interesting?” He answered in single syllables or shoulder shrugs.
About halfway to the store, he began frantically turning around to look up and down the street, as if he were a wanted criminal trying to evade capture. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“If you see any kids, they’re probably from my school, so you’ll have to walk three feet in front of me or let me get in front of you. Okay?”
No, that was not okay, not okay at all. He was totally tossing me aside, ready to pretend that I didn’t exist. But I didn’t complain. I didn’t object. These were his new rules, his new guidelines, that dictated our relationship in public. I could accept them or not, but if I didn’t, it would mean less time with him.
Not much further along, we turned a corner which brought us to the main road. There is always a great deal of traffic and a fair amount of foot traffic, especially during rush hour. No sooner did we cross the first street than my son noticed a group of six kids walking out of Dunkin Donuts. The second G3 spotted them, he sped up–really fast. My clue to drop back and play dead.
“Hey G3,” a voice called out and several hands raised in a wave. Even from an increasingly wide distance, I saw his shoulders stiffen. He’d give anything, at that moment, for me to disappear. This young man who once upon a time used to cry and throw temper tantrums in stores, this boy who used to say the most inappropriate things in front of company because children have absolutely no filter, this kid who as a toddler loved to pull his clothes off at the beach and run around naked, was embarrassed because I happened to be walking on the same street.
It hurt. I won’t pretend it didn’t, although I think I put on a good act. I dropped back far enough and walked on even when he turned into the Mini-Mart. I didn’t stop until I came to a store lawn-sign that was big enough for me to hide behind. From the safety of my perch, I looked back. The crowd of kids had turned up the block and were headed in the direction of the school. I circled back, pulled open the door to the Mini-Mart, and stealthily slipped some money to my son. I was gone before he even had time to open the refrigerator.
I walked alone until I could turn up off the main street. There, out of the way and in the shadows, I waited for my son.
“Thank you,” he said when he caught up to me, keeping his voice low and glancing over his shoulder to see if any of his other schoolmates were around. They were. Two older boys loomed ahead, their backs to us, but their presence was too much. “I’ll meet you at home,” my son declared, taking off at a rapid pace and leaving me to follow in his wake. I didn’t even know he could walk that fast.
© 2024 Elizabeth Jaeger
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