In the spirit of Christmas, I will try not to kill Jake.
Seeing as how a great deal of my holiday blues were due to being apart from him and his brother it might seem like an obvious choice, but he’s almost 17 so that evens out the scale.
Jake and I have always been particularly close in a mini-me kind of way. I’m close with both my boys, but Max’s style is so different than mine that we don’t tend to bump heads in quite the same way. The traits Max seems to have inherited from me (to hell with nature) is a twisted sense of humor and the unfortunate knack of either waking up with or picking up through the ether the most annoying song possible each and every day. Other than that, he’s downright sane. He ain’t normal, but he’s sane.
Jake, on the other hand, has inherited from me the empath’s ability to sense and relate to most emotional states, especially stressful or sad ones though we’ll never turn our back on something happy. We just won’t necessarily trust it. Or as I’ve said to Jake, “With you it’s not so much glass-half-full or glass-half-empty. It’s more like there never was a glass, and even if there was it’s probably shattered in a million unrecoverable pieces on the ground.”
The process of adolescent separating of mother and son is pretty interesting, most especially with a pair like us. I crash to the rocks at the mere thought of being without the boys when they go to college, worry already about how visits home will be shared with my Ex (now that I have two of those I’m going to have to find some modifiers – I’m talking about their dad). I rend at the concept of boy-less living on a daily basis. For their part, the boys remain lovey and affectionate, Max sleeping against me on the couch while Jake gives hugs and lots of, “I love you, moms” throughout the day. Except.
When independence calls, all bets are off. Tonight’s minor incision started at 6:00 with a, “Mom, can I drive to dad’s and then to Harvard Square to meet my friend?”
“You don’t have a license, Jake.”
“Oh, right, what I mean is can I drive and you ride with me.”
“So you want a ride to the Square, but first to dad’s to get clothes or something.”
Right, which led to a hello and brief conversation between Ex and I, which Jake doesn’t like at all. Separate means separate if you’re Jake, and never the twain should meet (I suspect in some instances to avoid being seen playing one side against the other, but that’s his right – it’s not his fault he’s in that position). The conversation? Redoing Jake’s closet at Ex’s house. You know, heavy stuff.
Yesterday was a very close day, all boys and mom and dog piled up – we basically never left the living room, even to eat. The day before, though they were supposed to have done other things, they came over for a few hours of wrapping and couch racing. A slightly sore Christmas for us, made much less so by an unspoken and necessary togetherness, by a couple of days of smiles and few words and shared nothings.
How then to best separate when adolescence once again takes the wheel?
“Really, Jake, what is so wrong with me and dad having a conversation? We’re just talking about redoing a closet.”
“I’ll be gone soon, Mom. Seems like a lot of work for just one year.”
“Jake, you’ll be going to college, not moving out forever. You’ll still be coming home all the time.”
The pitying smile and shrug said it all.
It’s going to be a cold walk home from Harvard Square tonight.